gruesome meal. A weapon I both need and fear. People rioting. Trampling one another. A city burning. A belfry. A closet. Darkness and fear. Finally, dawn. Holy water splashing, hissing on steel. A church. I shut down. Walls slam in my heart, my mind. I will not go there. There is/was/will never be a church in my existence. I look up at him. I know him. I do not trust him. Or is it me I do not trust? “You are my lover,” I say. He sighs and rubs his jaw. “Mac, we have to leave this room. It’s bad out there. It’s been months. I need you back.” “I am right here.” “What happened at the”—he breaks
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