[ABV. XLII] SINNER YOU BETTER GET READY…

limbs twisted at an unnatural angle, fingers still twitching, legs still kicking, though weakly now. shallow breath coming in in short, uneven wet bursts similar to those of a starving animal. face disfigured beyond recognition. thick blood running from what’s left of the nose and from the mouth, pooling darkly into the carpet below the head.

you doubt and you’re desperate and you’re wearing both your cross and your hammer, such beautiful dreams of violence, in them your tongue is made of silver.

if you want me quiet you could always just slash the neuromuscular bundle in my neck, sever the recurrent laryngeal and nick the superior cervical ganglion.

i would lick both my vomit and my blood off your shoes.

death, pale and thin, with cold gums receding over sharp, all tearing teeth, has gentle hands that hold you like a bird.

thinking about someone much older and much meaner than me, someone who’s strength may not be visible to the eye, yet could break my neck and set my dislocated joints equally easily, someone who is not afraid of death’s gentle hands, maybe a surgeon, yes, a sawbones with kind eyes and cruel hands.