M.G. Hernandez
It’s not her blackened tongue hanging from her once juicy, cherry tomato lips or that she hangs from the noose, stiff as a mannequin from the rigor mortis. No, the one element that terrifies me, as I stand in this pink room with bowls of crystals on a mahogany desk, is the fact that I had just dined with her in the kitchen a minute ago.
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