Page 20 of The Feast of Us
Then they tilt their heads back and howl together (two voices braided into one perfect note of ownership and damnation).
I run.
I run until my lungs burn and my legs give out and I collapse in the snow miles away, vomiting, sobbing, clawing at my own skin as if I could scrape their corruption off me.
Because I finally understand.
They didn’t just fuck in front of a corpse.
They fucked the corpse into themselves.
And whatever crawls out of that clearing when they’re finished won’t have room for sisters or friends or love ever again.
Only hunger.
