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#MS ITENGAR THIS ONES FOR YOU
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The priests tell your husband you’re only gonna be sick for a few days.
You’re sick a lot longer than a few days.
Coming back to having a body is strange, but not as strange as coming back to having your own soul— it’s like parts of you just got cleaved off and left to drift somewhere in the water, like a whalefall. You don’t remember how to think. You don’t remember your husband, at first, and then you do, and then you roll over and dry heave with his hands on your back.
There’s no food in your stomach. You didn’t have a stomach yesterday. You’ve been rotted for almost two hundred years.
It’s so hot here. The other place, the grey ocean, it was cool, or it was the absence of heat, and it was movement, and your body doesn’t move that way anymore. It can’t. You were a many-limbed thing, a fluttering mote of sea spray, the stuff of potential, and now you are Deanna. Capital D. Feminine. Singular.
You would hate him for what he took from you, maybe.
You’ve forgotten what hate feels like.
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