Jan 24, 2019
The same hysteria I felt upon seeing her rises inside me again, and the small sliver of control I have shatters as I think—what if she leads them to me? I reach for her, fingers spread wide, and a thread sprouts from my palm, twisting and twirling through the air like spun gold, and, like a needle attached to a long thread, spears the dead girl’s head, weaving in and out of her body, perforating her as easily as paper, until she is covered from her broken head to her toes in a cocoon of gold. Beautiful and disturbing, it constricts, tightening around her form, consuming, growing smaller and smaller until she’s nothing more than a coin on the ground.
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