mwm4444
Slices, the pink slices dripping with juice. How I loved to watch my father carve the meat, his only real contribution to the work of the meal. What panache!
The truth is not in him. He lies the way other men breathe. He lies when there's no need to, just out of general policy. Rovian!
Velvet, soft under my fingers, menacing in his voice. I am lost, I want only to lose myself in the velvety softness of drowning, of death.
Standing on the shore, I watch the water curling around the children's toes. It's almost brown now.