[sylvanSpider]

Two syllables. That was easier. That he could muster--every time he hit the keys it seemed to get easier. As far as pictures went, he was certain there were some in the boxes in the attic. He'd watched them pack it up when the new family came in.

In his life, he'd had a few portraits done. A couple were done as a lad (oh, the struggles they went through to keep him still!), and he'd been lucky enough to have one taken of him while he breathed. Two after his death. Now, he was amazed at the fact that anyone could take a picture any time any where. When he was a living breathing human, only the extremely wealthy and the dead ever had their photographs taken. He'd had two taken after his death, one that he was aware of. While he was still on the floor laying in his own blood and viscera. The ax that was used was there as well, discarded beside his concave head.

He pushed a key twice, the key visibly indenting as he did so: 22. He looked at her trying to gauge her reaction.