How does she breathe?
Her words run one into the next, over and under each other, never giving me a chance to respond. She never pauses. Never takes a breath. Never pulls in air.
I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t get a single word in. I have to listen to her every second of the day and I can say nothing.
I’ll get a word in now.
I’ll place my hands around her neck
and I’ll squeeze hard enough to stop the words
and with the words she never let me say I’ll ask her
How do you breathe.
An excerpt from The Apothecary, a romantic horror novelette:
He stands, and turns his back to me and the fire. He walks over to the spinning wheel, and begins unraveling the threads. “There’s nothing to say about my father,” he says.
I stand too. “But I’ve been wondering––”
“You need to go home. It’s getting dark.” The words are harsh, but he speaks them softly. They hurt more than way. With his back to me, with the mask out of sight, I want to run to him, tell him I don’t want to go home. Not tonight. Not ever.
But if I do that, he’ll turn to me, with that mask.
I put down the cup, and put my cloak around my shoulders. The spinning wheel starts circling, squeaking slightly. I catch a glimpse of mask slithering where a cheek ought to be, and again I shiver, though not from cold. He says nothing as I slip out the door.
Smeared Black Ink 