Death in Her Hands

by Ottessa Moshfegh

“Let me see if I understand you correctly, miss—” “Magda.” Tears came to my eyes. The girl cleared her throat. “Magdalena Tanasković.”

people will disappoint you. You have to accept that fact: people will let you down. Sometimes we put people on such a high pedestal that they can’t measure up to our expectations, and we then get disappointed. And then when they stumble, we get angry.

Nobody’s perfect. David said in the book of Psalms, ‘If it would have been an enemy that betrayed me, then it would not have bothered me or hurt me. But it was you, my friend.’

forgiveness is a decision. It’s not a feeling. It’s a choice ...

you. Even though you hurt my feelings, I forgive you. And I love you. And let’s fix this.

and as I approached, he lifted himself up and turned his back to me. It was so cruel, so cold. I felt awful. I wanted to be close to him, to patch things up between us.

“I’m only ashamed that I ever let you touch me.”

Magda’s knife gripped in my fist. It was the life in me that rose up, the desire to survive that made me do it, a gut reaction to kill the thing that would kill me.

I told him, and finally reached out my hand to caress his silky head. Sometimes this happens to animals, I told myself. They turn mad on you.

Her name was Vesta. That was what I meant to write all along—my story, my last lines. My name was Vesta. I lived and died. Nobody will ever know me, just the way I’ve always liked

or perhaps this is the strength of my emotion. I can’t breathe, but I run. Yes, yes, I will die out here. I’ll do it my way.