[Caren's usual approach of answering inane questions over Communion with a litany of cleansing prayer is cut short. It is a voice she has (not) heard before. The flower fields. The tree effigy. The shadows that crept into the ears and minds of bearers. It's his voice she's heard, more often than not, when it's been a false promise.
Like a flower that has grown through a slab, the regrettable nature of a thing that should (not) exist is that it inexplicably can still reside in memory.
And it's as foul and lust-obsessed as ever. Always.
iv. but he's getting a lot of bites on that so i'm sure it'll become something else
Like a flower that has grown through a slab, the regrettable nature of a thing that should (not) exist is that it inexplicably can still reside in memory.
And it's as foul and lust-obsessed as ever. Always.
So she says, like she's been slapped,]
Leave, beast. There's nothing for you here.