Get used to the unbroken body. Everything so smooth under your fingers. Face clear of fissures, those spiderwebbed tattoos. The face of the baby who will kill the final girl, who is the final girl: Where's Mommy Now? I had this place on my wrist where the steam scalded me as I lifted the lid from a pot of spinach. Badge of pain. Proud to be unselfish: I cooked you my very flesh, insatiable child. Gradually it hardened and then went red and raw and then dark brown and now it's soft, faintly pink. Can you live backwards, uncrack the egg. Which came first. If my body doesn't heal it's enough that her body is perfect. Not yet time to roll back the rock; we huddle together in darkness, watching haul videos on youtube.
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