The Centifictionist

Her mug done smurfed, it was turning blue. I said “God damn, Mary, I fuckin’ hate when you quit breathing like this.” She was laid up like a rug on the tile, colder than a witches tit. “Did you pour ice down her shirt?” asked Bobby. “No,” said Steve, “and I ain’t got no more narcan.” “The fuck you mean?” said Bobby. “Used it all on her yesterday,” said Steve. She was turning bluer and bluer like an ocean, like a sky, like a ball, like a bug, like a flower that is rare. “I think she died,” I said.

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Rebekah Morgan/32/Tennessee. Twitter: @rebekah_______.