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A Short Story : A Story?

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saw him jab a needle the size of a ladle into the white flesh that was waiting. He jumped in the chair. The needle wiggled but still sank into the clump of skin. His face, usually a yoke color, turned tomato read. He yanked the needle out of his leg and his fat hand shook. “What is that?” she said. He reached inside his pocket, pulled out a plastic cap and put it on the needle. She thought he had rolled his eyes but she wasn't sure. “I have diabetes. I have to give myself shots of insulin everyday.” His voice was low, but clear. Caroline didn’t detect a hint of embarrassment, only annoyance. He pressed his hands into the arms of the chair to lift himself out. “You know,” he said. “That’s very dangerous. I could have hurt myself.” She didn’t speak, but stared at the needle, then out the window behind her father. She could see the pond. The water, green and calm. “What are you doing home so early?” “I don’t feel well,” she said. He walked into the kitchen. His steps were slow, heavy and Caroline imagined her father giving himself those shots after every meal. She had never stayed around to watch it happen, but still, someone should have told her. He should have explained, perhaps that first day he was back that he could be gone any minute. He wasn't healthy. He watched her as she stood there thinking. She lifted her head, their eyes blazing into each other’s. He didn’t look away as he opened a drawer, put his needle and a little bottle of something else inside. “So we

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