Treatment

Harsh words slap like hands, flat and callous, incomprehensible.

“A ritual,” he explains.

He smiles, like when we first met, just days before my life changed. He’d stuck with me, even so.

“This is a sacred place.”

I stare at wood-slat walls, decorated with leather harnesses and ancient harvest blades.

“My family farm,” he supplies, as if that might increase my appreciation.

“My life’s work, to restore it.”

I’m barely lucid, as usual. “I’m not able help you.”

“Lindsey, your body is riddled with tumors. Here, at least, your gin-soaked blood will do some good. One last sacrifice. For love.”