Death by a Thread

A woman with fingers as thin as needles, pale as the snow that surrounds her, and as grim as a hundred funerals.

Her room, as beautiful as the southernmost pole of the untouched Antarctic, is surrounded with black mold.

“Let me tear my throat! I have to clean it!” She screams while ripping her skin thin as rice paper.

The mold hides depper inside each pore and vessel that screams for liberation. Soft fingers wipe the mold, cleaning the blood.

A smile stretches her face. Now she needs stitches. Hundreds of yards of white cloth thread seems into her pink flesh. 

She laughs with irresistible charm until her face is shut. She is scared. Terrified of restraint. Of death fr restraint.

The thread closes and ties into beautiful bows. A dozen little gifts never to be opened. Death by a thread.

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