By Susanna Lamb
When Jara put her hands on the dying man, she lost all sense of time.
Looking down on her body, she saw the blood, the empty husk of the man, and her own skin, like a suit suddenly worn by someone else.
“We’re too late.” She heard her body say. “He’s dead.”
Then, all at once, her body turned, a puppet on unseen strings, and looked at her, met her spirit eyes.
And it was then, in that moment, that she knew she was lost,
That her body would never again be hers.
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Lamb is a sociopathic excuse for a writer. Or at least, that’s what she tells people to get their pity.
Labels: Susanna Lamb