Nothing. I come to a chair leg, and it is as thick and solid as a joint of beef. My mouth waters. I think of Molly with a fist of Carmilla’s hair in her mouth. The girl with her mouth red with chicken blood. The woman spearing the meat of her husband’s arm and tearing off strips with her teeth. I understand them perfectly. I take a bite, clamping my jaws around the wood, gnawing at it for splinters. I want more. I need more.
YOURE EATING A TABLE
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