She said: "I suppose what stopped it was the razor blade in the end. It stopped the screaming and was a potent message to send to the others on the other side of the locked door. I suppose she said what she could not say any other way. Or, maybe she just said what she had to say. I don't think any of us really knew what, exactly, she needed to say, but the words would not come to her; language failed her; we failed her in that month of constant rain, in the south, at month's end, in America, in 1966, on the way to the airport, away from the constant sorrow and the quietness of an empty house."

Stumble It!