by McKenzie Richardson
The corpse swings on its rope when my fingers wrap around its wrist. Tendons and muscles fray as I sever the flesh. Cracking bones, I saw through until the hand falls into my grasp.
Before dissolving into the darkness, reeking of congealing blood, I collect slabs of fat from the murderer’s torso for a candle, a hair from his head to serve as its wick. Placed in the Hand of Glory, it will grant me powers unimaginable with which to exact my revenge.
They thought to burn my kind. They are not the only ones who can play with fire.