There is a particular cruelty to the places that matter, they do not give themselves back whole. They give you fragments, smells, the precise red of an apple, the shoes on a small dog, a cover in Dutch you never opened. Enough to know what you had. Not enough to have it again.
Rotten.
This is not a story about a woman’s descent into madness. It is a story about a woman who felt so rotten at her core that the only way she knew to get rid of the stench was to starve it out.
theiconicvarier 