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Hallowed Be Thy Name

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He’s all teeth. Lips soft like the desert heat. Rose bush mouth hot and wet like an August afternoon in Washington. There’s a little league baseball game teeing off in her stomach and the curl of wheat humming against her brow and— fucking god, death has never felt this good. Not in the history of the world. It’s like Abel and Cain, and not the other way around. The scorch of ruby red blood running down her throat, sweat pilling in the crease of her nape. Her knuckles are molted white. Her dress is green. Like a forest. Like a timber house on fire.

There’s glass everywhere. The soft glow of the candles has spread only in the metaphorical sense— the reflection staring back at their bodies is one of reverence. It’s horrible and cursed. She is a victim in the cold eyes of the shattered table. Oh to be a victim. Oh to be missed. A voice croans miserably in the back of her chest. A mother. Hers? Has Reneé ever sounded like her mother?

Marble hands are trying to tear him off her, nails like crystals, blood covering every slick surface. And god is she slick, under and over her dress, and holds onto him tighter. He’s wearing a button up that reeks of another girl’s perfume and she decides her life could suffocate it if she tried hard enough. All that crimson coating her palms like split middle school nail polish. Not acetone smoke. Just copper. Just him. Just her pale skin, marred.

This is what God feels like, she says. This is prayer. The way his tongue sweeps the roof of her mouth stops her pulse and she starts her Hail Mary’s in tandem. He’s saying something. Roaring and growling and hissing with his knuckles creating screaming dents into her hips, under her dress again. She wants him in between them. She wants the heaviest parts of him fucking her into the shards beneath them. She wants she wants she needs my God— Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come— fuck his nails dig like claws into the meaty flesh of her thighs as he bites his way over her jaw, maybe it’s the blood loss— is it? The room is silent like a car crash, there’s water on the collar of his shirt and it’s soaking in, oh Lord oh Lord oh Lord there’s his beautiful teeth. Is that what a razor blade feels like? Is this what the Eve felt? Or is she the apple—

Her world is ripped away from her in milliseconds. Her vision is black and grey, white washed without the haze of a southern demon’s fingers making prints in the smooth satin of her dress. Everything is crumpled and fading like an old school box TV as it flicks off before her father tucks her into bed.

She is twelve and eighteen and six years old all at once and the cool wash of air from the doctors breath is like a lullaby. And God, she wants to sleep so badly. Why did they take him from her? Why can’t he put her to bed? She’s so cold now, without, without…

There’s a bone white piano key by her useless forefinger and she smiles.

It’s the best birthday she’s ever had.