I would rather dance as a ballerina, though faultily, than as a flawless clown. - Margaret Atwood

Murderess, murderess, he whispers to himself. It has an allure, a scent almost. Hothouse gardenias. Lurid, but also furtive. He imagines himself breathing it as he draws Grace towards him, pressing his mouth against her. Murderess. He applies it to her throat like a brand.

All you have to do, I tell myself, is keep your mouth shut and look stupid. It shouldn't be that hard.

Fatigue is here, in my body, in my legs and eyes. That is what gets you in the end. Faith is only a word, embroidered.