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Karens gaze drifted to the couch. The memory may send her back inside forever where we can never reach her. I closed my eyes.I was home. It was a Saturday, and Dad wanted me to go fishing with him. I rubbed my nose. “I got a call from a woman who said there was a man lurking outside her window and she was afraid, so I jotted down her address and told Dad Id be back in an hour or so. I looked at Max and frowned. “I called you, but you didnt answer, so I left a message.” Dr. Neil passed him a bag containing his clothes.Ill have it ready for you when youre ready to leave. I assume youd like me to accomplish this without fingers pointing at anyone else? Marcus asked. Samara retched.* * * Shes ours now, a teasing voice carried on the breeze and he jerked his head up to meet the threat. Her mind fills with images the way anothers eyes might brim with tears. Her feet jiggle up and down as though he is running. She feels as though there are ants beneath her skin. Youre lying! I pulled the trigger, my scream echoing over and over inside my head. [ i_001.jpg] Last of a line, the Body Servants of Jern. Their families had been entwined since the first True Blood lords took power. Gilliad had almost wiped them from the face of the earth for imagined disloyalty. When he brought her into one of the Shistra-Phails tents, laying her down on blankets and stretching out alongside her, he wiped them away with the pad of his finger and smiled again. Very eloquent. Well done. From him. From his new kindred. She tries to move. Blood rushes into her fingers, her toes. It cuts through the numbness. Its as if hundreds of pins are pushing out through her flesh. She squirms again. Her face is constricted. It feels like shes being squeezed. Theres pressure behind her eyes and across her sinuses, as if she were hanging forward. If I may, my lord? dating service dallas Would You Die For Her Inside the swarm. The woman reaches down to pick up a stone. She wants to hold something solid: to fill her pockets with weight so she does not drift away. She starts to bend down and notices that her feet are bare. She thinks of her feet as ugly things.Trotters, her last man called them. Her little toe crosses over the next one on both of her feet. There is hard, calloused skin upon her soles.Like sleeping with a cheese-grater. Thats what he said, whenever she drifted from her side of the bed onto his side. Such teasing always served as a gateway. The insults would drift up and over her as if she were lowering herself into water. Chubby ankles, toddler legs, pudgy knees, dimpled arse. Hed reach over and grab her belly. Squeeze great handfuls of her. Shed be crying by the time he reached her nipples.Rubber-fingers, he called them. Pulled out his phone and shoved pictures under her nose; sows suckling their young: swollen purple teats, bruised and sticky with greenish milk. Her tears would stoke his temper. He’d call her weak. Tell her she disgusted him. That by 46 she should know her strengths and how to cope with a little banter about her appearance. Peevishly, fatly, he would turn his mass away from her, shaking his head into the pillow, muttering about how he was trying to have fun, to make her laugh, that she could take the piss out of him if she wanted and he wouldn’t fucking cry about it. It would fall to her to apologise: clinging to his sweaty shoulder like moss. Wheres Max? I asked..