that morning, she dreamt. she dreamt she was shot point blank and lay dying. as she cried with her hands on her wound, three words came out of her mouth. they were familiar words, deep-rooted. she learned to speak with them. they were never not known to her. in time, she came to carefully dismiss them—a necessary exercise in autonomy—but that morning in her dream, she could not silence her voice.
three words, three syllables.
that morning in her dream, she wailed and she uttered the words over and over again in spite of her, as if to say, you will die, but not without these words flooding your last breath; as if to say, you will die, but in your one final gasp, you will compensate for all the times you could not speak while you were living.
a contraction of sorts.
in the end, it was not clear what she saw. she kept her eyes open til she gave up the ghost, but it followed her straight to the grave.