Once
Ernesto expected to find peace. Instead something’s inside him, scraping to get out. Creatures with sharp claws, slicing slicing slicing at his innards, his muscles, his flesh, the dead pieces of him that still manage to hold together. He can hear the ripping, the slashing. At times it’s so loud he wants to scream. But every time he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a dry croak followed by maggots. They drop wriggling to the terrazzo floor, where the palmetto bugs quickly cover them. No matter how many get eaten, there are plenty more. Ernesto’s their incubator.
If not for the fresh coat of gore on his arm, he could almost believe he imagined it. He prays his daughter will understand.
From the command post of his easy chair, Ernesto hears another sound—a liquid sound that also
