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.
I
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.
__________
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