The girl wrote sigils into anything that would take them. A blade as thin as a razor scarred occult runes into the chicken’s skin. Each etched to grant her the future she desired. That all prior had failed did nothing to deter her attempt. 

 A voice carried from another room, rattling kitchen panes, making threats, demanding dinner. Her trembling fingers caressed the carcass. Its cool skin, its unsightly bumps. Once the oven came up to heat she would place it inside. She knew she could taint it, and bring it all to a swift close. But she remembered how he came to love her in the first place. How many tries it took to get that right too. 

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