Notes on an Execution

by Danya Kukafka

Ansel stepped forward, engulfing Saffy in a hug. It did not feel how she had imagined, his warm body pressed against hers. She was numb and stupefied, giddy with his touch. For the first time, Saffy hated herself. She hated herself with a profound sense of awareness, less like a girl and more like a woman—with fury, desperation, shame. It was the sort of hatred that lurked in the shallows, gnashing its jaws, the ugliest thing about being herself. She reached, cradling, and welcomed it in.

Tragedy had a texture.

Lavender knew, then, that the world was a forgiving place. That every horror she had lived or caused could be balanced with such gutting kindness. It would be a tragedy, she thought—inhumane—if we were defined only by the things we left behind.