/lit/ - Literature

Not the best story but I loved the ending.

And when I remember that world, I remember my dead young self, who left me something too, which is her canning jar of poisoned sausage and the ability it confers, of remembering what you can't imagine.
I can't say that I forgive my father, but now I can imagine what he probably chose never to remember-- the goad of an unthinkable urge, pricking him, pressing him, wrapping him in an impenetrable fog of self that must have seemed, when he wandered around the house late at night after working and drinking, like the very darkness.
This is the gleaming obsidian shard I safeguard above all others.