Maspin

Do bad men get what they deserve?

His mouth is hot and hard against the nape of my neck, the sharp cut of his unshaven jaw sending my body flinching against the mantlepiece. The shadows bend, licked with that wet low flame and the ghost of my form into the bloom of the wallpaper. There is nothing, nothing but that spit of the bracken and kindling and the sound of his throat against my clavicle. And I stare at that shadow, my shadow, in the mirror above the mantlepiece as it bends her blackness away from him-