Luneshale Pass hielo

with this much medicine to her head, soto wonders if she’s delusional. stumpy, drugged, missing a leg — how is she to escape? perhaps her mind is her sanctuary, and it is here she resides, pulling out the fantastical and laying it against his ears in sweet tones just saccharine enough they disguise realism’s encroaching terror.

he rises. there’s no utility in further conversation. in acts of warring words she might have the high ground, but it’s soto standing clear of mind, no missing leg, free — while she writhes in the dirt reveling in her womanhood. and what blessing did her gender bring her? it was a curse; were she not a warm place for juaréz to bury his dick, she’d have been dispatched weeks ago. her sole merit was the steaming cunt housed beneath the soft curve of her thighs.

he knows the man with the last word was often the first to die. no impulse urged him to counter her rejoinder. while she looks away, he seizes the hare between his teeth and quits the unpleasant prickle of her company.

he hopes later when her stomach bucks once more, his face swims in her vision.