Offspring

by Jack Ketchum

Her arms were drying in the sink. Along with the dishes.

whatever hell they came from-and would have-had not the hatchet fallen in its fine arc to the center of her forehead and brought her instantly shuddering to her knees. Blind to heartbreak forever.

It reminded him somehow of the breath of a cat. Nice, but a little rotten.

She felt a wild communion with them compounded of blood and hate, not knowing that in part the hatred was for them for the whippings, for First Stolen's use of her, for a life stolen which she could never truly miss but which lingered dimly still somewhere far beyond her waking consciousness-and not caring, because this was life now, this hunger, this blood beating in the veins of the man who held her.

"To be an artist," said Kurosawa, "means never to avert one's eyes."