one by one, they'll all unravel

She has a goldmine of pills, I noticed freshly refilled, for her heart and for pain, for her dead grandson and estranged husband, for the dead boy's brother--headed for a similar fate or a prison cell--and a desperate family across the world, still leeching off her work. I'm the well-behaved one. I wait for her to go into the bathroom to sneak into her treasure chest.

Her eyes sparkled as she spoke to me, "It's Armenia that's keeping me up." I said don't take any more, you'll get sick. She said I need them to live. How much longer can you work like this? She said I need the money for his memorial, it's approaching and I need to go. I thought, yea, but I need those pills.

I remember when it happened almost a year ago. My father predicted, "You'll see, this will spark a chain of events. They're all in a stupor right now. When it clears, they'll all start blaming."

His funeral was as extravagent and pathetic, I hear, as his grandfather's gambling. They went all-out. They had no class. They put it all on the table, an abundance of meat for the feast. They paraded his coffin like he was a war hero. He was just a scared little boy with an AK-47.