I Am Made of Death

by Kelly Andrew

Maybe that was all he was—a broken compass, doomed to wobble in place. Maybe he didn’t know how to find due north. Maybe he’d wander, directionless, until he was old and bitter and angry at the world, just like his father.

No matter how hard she played at being a girl, at the end of the day she was nothing more than a doll on a music box, forced to turn and turn by the hand that wound her spring.

“You don’t want me to see you,” he said. “But I see you, Vivienne.” No one had ever sounded more confident. No one had ever sounded more doomed. “I see you, and I came for you, anyway. I’ll always come for you. That’s what I’ve been trying to make you understand. You don’t have to do this alone.”