Kiss Of Evil

76

The Amanita Muscaria is in full, adolescent blossom in my brain, my muscles, my blood. I feel primally fit, cunning.

Jack Paris is dead.

The world might think he sacrificed himself to save the woman, that he is some kind of noble savage, but we know the real reason:

Guilt.

My very first spell.

My madrina screams but I can barely hear her over the mad rumbling, the swelling chorus of the music. I select the machete, comforted by its heft, its balance.

I will behead her with one stroke of steel.

I look directly into the camera lens as the floor beneath me begins to quake and shudder, to shake the very foundation of the building.

To this world I say: “This is for Sarafina. Mi hermana.”

“And this is for Fayette Martin.”

The voice comes from right behind me. Inches away. I spin.

It is Paris. He has big hands, like my dad’s. For the first time in my life, everything goes quiet.

I spring.

Dad fires.