The Quiet of Drowning

She’s not battling for control anymore. The Other’s going to take it anyway.

  • Excerpt

    And it really doesn’t help that the Other sits at the foot of your bed in a padded chair with metal arms. Her eyes reflect the moonlight coming in through the curtains.

    Don’t you feel better? she says.

    You cringe at the sound of her voice. It’s resonant in a way yours isn’t. Full-bodied. Sultry. Wrong. And she sounds so pleased to have coaxed you into scratching your inner thigh, where the mosquito bit you.

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