Scrambled or Fried?

Waking up slow, groggy, sore, bruised, puffy, thick, dry, exhausted. Waking up thinking about all the names she could’ve chosen. Waking up wondering about all those who could’ve loved her, if only in some small + human ways, even when she wasn’t one of them.

How easy abuse and violence becomes the normal, she thinks. As if there’s something wrong + unworthy of her for simply living—and if she just dressed better for the changing weather—how that would solve all her ills.

The ogre sits down at the kitchen table, phone in hand, smile stretched thin bearing preternaturally white capped teeth concealing blood stained rot.

“How would you like your eggs...scrambled or fried?” Waiting for his answer before taking another breath.

She reads his lips because you don’t dare look into the eyes of evil.