Every morning she’d have hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. She had done so for the past 96 years, since the first one she held up during the celebrations of her first birthday. She still approached them with the same eagerness presently – perhaps more now that she could feel death dance with the ruffles of her dress.
Mornings were silent and still. She’d sit facing the grand French windows in a pool of light and hold each egg up for examination. Day after day she’d run her fingers over the grooves, the little pores, the edges where the turn got sharper. Always she’d hold the egg upside down – a head unadorned, tabula rasa. Then, she’d place it back in the egg cup and chisel softly at it, puncturing a fine hole with a screwdriver and a teaspoon. She liked her eggs runny. She’d let the inside slowly drain out onto her toast, joy curling like a cat at the corner of her eyes.
“You’ll have a life a grandeur,” she was always told, since the day of her Quccija. For her life to complete, however, there was one wish left. It was this which kept her cracking eggs with such precision each day. Today was the was the day it would happen: Death had her by the hips, moving her like a marionette.
Today she’d crack his skull, back centre, and watch his brains drip out.