Her hair was brittle.

Like straw. I rub it between my fingers. It feels like yarn.

Her fingernails were brittle. They broke into shards on my skin.

Not a word. Not a word does she say now.

No arguments now, no fucking mocking tone now.

Oh, no.

Her neck was brittle, too.


3 responses to “Brittle

  1. Disgusting fantasy I think a lot of people have entertained, though fortunately only for a second before remembering themselves.

  2. A friend of mine argued with me that this story sounded more like a domestic violence, boyfriend/husband killing his girlfriend/wife. I say, a monster is a monster.

  3. I just learned that I have to go to another page to look at comments that people leave. Isn’t that just great? I’ll get the hang of this yet.

    Thanks, John. I think so, too. The bad ones don’t remember themselves. I write about those guys.

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