The Library at Hellebore

by Cassandra Khaw

Far as I’m concerned, dirt’s the only holy thing in the world. It can make roses out of even the worst losers: in death, we achieve meaning.

Cruelty was like riding a bike: it became ingrained in you, became muscle memory. There was no losing the trick of it. You never forgot how to drive a knife in and twist.

We sanded the dark down to a manageable threat; everyone still knew to be cautious when out walking at night, but they were no longer afraid of ghosts, just one another.

Girls who were hurt and who discovered they could really hurt their abusers in return. You’d be surprised how many of us there are in that last category.

“It’s Hellebore, after all,” said Minji from her perch. “We’re all monsters here.”