a product of their work, their illness. looking upon her, how flesh had lost its colour, warmth no longer filled those cheeks. ‘ we’ve given you the closure you desired, do you not thank us ... ? ‘ voice was droning, null. the she-plague took the hands of the other, holding it, she examined & felt her skin, every detail on her palm. ‘ you are not a victim of our sickness but the result of it. ‘
&. starter for / @devourrot















