BEAUTY - jessie peacock


jessie peacock

She was smiling at me, her yellowed teeth gleaming like hardened syrup in the surreal silver light. I ached to hold her, to crush her in my arms, to see if she smelled fragrant when she was broken—like a petal when it dies. Her thin, twisted purple veins spiderwebbed just beneath her paper-thin, dappled skin. She squinted her bloodshot eyes; she looked strained and small. She ran a finger down her emaciated frame, hooking it inside the folds of her cheap blue gown with pride alien to her kind. Her hair, where it had not been burned off, hung around the hollows of her long, thin face in ratty tendrils, so greasy they did not sway in the breeze. I couldn't help but lean forward, take her in my arms, kiss the crook of her arm. She fell back into me like a rag doll, and when my knife broke the skin of her neck she sighed. The crimson blood slid down her dirty dress like a cascade of gems onto my hand. Her groan became a gurgle, and when she was gone, I laid her out onto the concrete, arranging her limbs just so. She was so beautiful.

Jessie Peacock
Across The Wall
Garth Nix