Summer 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 3/4 FictionJuly 1, 2000 |

Style

She wakes in the middle of the night to find him staring at her, his gaze raising the fine hairs from naked shoulder to naked hip. No. His watching pulls her awake. Her chin slaps forward, nicking her collarbone. As she gropes for consciousness, he woozes into focus. His eyes are sprung wide, his ears pointing straight up. But that's not it either. Something snatches her awake in the middle of the night, a concussive explosion in the depths of her skull. She leaps into a crouch at the top corner of the bed, her breath pounding, her eyes all-seeing, not seeing. A fan of fingers trickles down toward her angled knee. A confusion of sound escapes from his mouth, a close numbing roar. She feels the feral beat of her breath in her chest, a steady heeling of drums overlaid with sudden flutters, the padding feet of a jungle animal stealing up on his prey. The sounds resolve, "It's OK. It's OK." She does not feel OK. She feels. Dazed. Misplaced. Needing to reacquaint herself with the

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To Die For

By Elizabeth Denton

She wakes in the middle of the night to find him staring at her, his gaze raising the fine hairs from naked shoulder to naked hip. No. His watching pulls […]

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