Unholy with Eyes like Wolves

by Morgan Dante

I am more than my fear; even my fear keeps me alive.

Trying to be that mother, the good mother, who was remembered fondly at the funeral. Quiet, soft spoken, never did anything bad to anyone. Only lived to help others, whittle away, and die. And maybe before I went to Heaven, if I went to Heaven, I’d stare in that cool, fungal void, where I was reflected back to myself, and apologize for killing who I could have been.

I’m better, but I’m not healed. Healing, such a pleasant word for something that only means that the wounds continue on.

If she wants to kill me, then kill me and free my soul from its body-prison, but I’ll make sure it hurts. Let her leave me broken and come away scarred and aching.

one might think of a flea and ask, ‘What good does it do? It steals blood and spreads disease.’ But when we destroy and kill and give others plague and famine, we don’t ask, well, what good are we if we only hurt other creatures to thrive?” The Countess argues, “Fleas don’t have art and literature.” Valentina hums. “True enough, but they also don’t have ships, swords, and guns.”