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She didn’t eat her food. She didn’t play the games she made. Didn’t read her own writing or ever look through her sketchbook. What she made was for others.
Because the bad was so bad, it made the good seem impossible, as if it had never been present in the first place. The good was a guttering candle against the cold wind of a deep dark moonless winter night. It never had a chance.
The body was an endless expanse of opportunities to pick and pluck and bite and peel. It made him feel better. It made him feel worse. He did it anyway because he couldn’t help it.
