“Photographs are fake” she says, as she shreds the last remaining vestige, the last remaining reminder of what apparently was, what maybe could have been, what was crafted by the shrewd excuse for a photographer that was their neighbour, who had no doubt heard the screams at nighttime and at daytime and at any waking living ungodly hour between father and son, father and daughter, daughter and mother, mother and father, and elected not to breathe a word: the choice of not breathing a word probably restricted only towards these screaming-match players, because what person having access to exclusive inside family drama and their own skeletons to hide, shuts up without planting the seed of gossip?
“Photographs are fake” she says as she lets​ herself dry her eyes completely tonight, there is no one to judge her or act like they care. All have left. There is a sense of loneliness in her, but it is peaceful, pleasant even. There will be nothing left in her life, starting tonight, that would relate her to the past like this umbilical cord of a photo album does, she is a free bird, starting tonight.

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