October 31, 2014

“I rest the back of my hand against father’s forehead and his face is warm with post-mortuary fever. I lift father’s eyelids and his eye whites are bright yellow, the same brilliant fulvous shade as the runoff streaming downhill into the town’s water supply. Charlotte Manson stomps her feet against the floor. Eat them, eat them, eat them, she shrieks and knocks over the only mirror in the room. The frame hits the side of the bed, balances against the post, then falls on, shattering facedown on the floor. Charlotte Manson mashes her feet against the mess, taking the shards into her shoes and grinding hard until blood drips out of gaps in the rubber soles. Eat the ones who made you, she says.”

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