The discarded pieces of former humans, garishly strewn, suddenly made sense. It wasn’t random carnage, but a selection process. Seamless before me stood the reconstruction of the one I’d loved best, lost first. The tableau, a perfect Victorian room, the sort we’d visited from time to time, seeking wisdom from crones and their cronies, sparked memories forgotten.
She smiled, almost right, almost real.
looked beyond her, to where the jar rested on a shelf. The room turned
the blue of foxglove poisoning – she’d taught me that – as I lunged
past the simulacrum of my mother.
I fell, heart breaking.