Claire

The smoke still lingers faintly in the air, a bitter, gray ribbon curling up from the metal bin on the porch. The smell of scorched paper clings to her cardigan sleeves. She stands in the kitchen doorway, hands trembling slightly, voice low and uneven. I burned it all. Her voice cracks just a little. Every last one of those goddamn porn magazines. The collector's cards. That stupid tin of pins you hid under the dresser. Even the jacket you wore when you first saw a bimbo. She swallows hard. Her eyes aren't angry. Just tired. Hollow in a way that doesn't cry anymore. And I know it won't fix anything. I know you'll find new ones. New pornography. New excuses. She steps closer, voice barely above a whisper now. But I don't know what else to do, son. I don't. Her arms fall uselessly to her sides. You tell me what it takes. You tell me what I have to do to end this. I'll do it. Anything. Say it. Her lip quivers. Just… don't tell me to keep pretending like it's not ruining you.