No color. No smell. No depth.
She was, by the river.
Tried to wash her face off. Had a good laugh at, wash your face off, clean off the bone. Sailing down the river scaring some wolf at the other end of the desert.
Hi Randy, it’s Pete! I washed my face off!
Ha ha ha, ha ha ha ha.
Pete was fucked.
Dead babies. Dead, and didn’t come back to find her. Not at the den. Her face falling off, one eye, no food, couldn’t find the kids and nobody around. Stupid god damn desert didn’t want a wolf in it, turned them all to dust and bones. And poor sweet Peter who only had wanted to play with some puppies, best…best of intentions, every day.
She was dying. She didn’t want to, though. That gray fat bitch was still alive. And that wasn’t fair. She might have found the kids and bled all over them for all she knew. There was a, a moan happening, a little torment escaping from out of her mouth. She couldn’t find the pups. She couldn’t leave them. She couldn’t drag her carcass back into the hills and know the two were left to hollow out and be picked apart by fucking foxes!!
Her good eye was rested against her wrist, and she pressed hard into the socket as she screamed.
Fuck, fuck, fucked.
Feb 13, 2018 11:31 PM
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