Her father stands at the kitchen sink, one long hand holding the wet wound on the back of his head. In the other is a serrated knife. His gray hair is blood-soaked, and there is a dark stain growing on his shirt collar. She asks her father about the wound. She asks him about the knife.
Without turning around, he says, It kept scratching around in there. He says, What else was I supposed to do?
In the sink, slick with blood like a deformed newborn, is her father’s homunculus. It steadies itself against a used coffee mug. It’s a rough-hewn thing, the idea of a man, not even tall enough to touch the faucet.