The River and Her Monster
I am not obligated to live. The daughter stands at the edge of the small, decrepit pier. The debris of years of tides and floods crackles under her feet; loose bait shells, old moss and rocks kicked up by the water, broken bottle glass smoothed by the river. Her skirt shifts around her shins like bedroom curtains and she stares listlessly into the water. Cooling dusk rushes her soft face like a brace of wolves and she holds out her arms, fingernails clenched against her palms and she wishes for the dogs to devour her. They do not; they only halt and rest beside her, twilight fur brushing against her skin. The daughter cries freshwater tears that fall into the muddy abyss below. She falls, legs folded haphazardly beneath her. The smooth glass dints her thigh. Eyes watch from the water and the daughter stares back, not understanding that the world continues to spin outside. They find her in the morning, shaking upon the rotting boards of the pier. She is taken away to bed, but not befo
