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by Claudia Lux

But by then, she was gone, too, the death certificate saying ovarian cancer but Silas knowing it was the rage that killed her: she grew those tumors like teeth to eat herself alive.

“You know that worried feeling?” Rose responded straight into Lily’s ear—not a whisper, but not loud enough for anyone else. “That feeling in your gut all the time, no matter the quality or intention of your company, like your safety is a gift from the men around you, not a right?”

Lily had spent her whole life carving herself into the perfect shape for him, hacking off whatever parts got in his way. The concave to his convex. Because that’s what it meant to be a wife, a mother. Because marriage required sacrifice. Because together, they made one, more complete shape. But when she looked into his eyes then, she knew what that voice in her had always known: Silas wanted the empty parts of her, the parts made for his comfort. But not the rest. The part of her that wasn’t holes.

his future grief corroded his present love like a cancer, until looking at her felt the same as losing her.

If you were lucky enough for your first fall to be in love and not loss, you might get what I’m talking about. The pure stuff, like flying before you look down. Like learning that the body you thought you had to fill all by yourself actually came with an extension; that neither worked alone, but together—bam, all of the lights come on.

He wanted power the way a plagiarist wants credit: the concept of pride gained from work was meaningless. The people who hurt children are always this particular brand of coward.

The kind who know they can’t get what they want on merit, who know their overall worth is less than their parts. And yet they feel power is owed to them anyway. So they siphon their power out of the weakest bodies ounce by thimble-ounce, sucking out every last drop. And then they pretend they earned it; that the bulk they swallowed—they stole—somehow makes them whole.

Because the world had told her that if she sacrificed as much as she could—if she kept herself small and quiet, swallowed back her questions and angers and fears—she would eventually be light enough for someone else to carry.