Marisa Crane


It’s 5 AM. I awake suddenly, a panic attack swelling in my chest like the winter surf. The room is gray and pathetic and feeling bad for itself. Wiley sleeps on his back, his mouth hanging open. His hands are clasped across his stomach. He looks like a dead pharaoh. His breathing is gentle and rhythmic—it possesses a flow I’ve never been able to master. He breathes so beautifully, it’s almost a sin not to savor it. 

I slip my hand under his head and grip the base of his skull, near his brainstem. He doesn’t react. My eyes narrow. I could do it. I could slice his skull open and extract his medulla oblongata without him noticing. I could fry it in a pan with some butter and herbs and serve it to him for breakfast. Watch him clutch his chest and gasp for air. 

Here, this is the real genius behind your legacy. Swallow it whole, wash it down with some brandy, baby. Die drunk and happy.

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