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gone sour

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Dark moles, pale skin, sweet like cookies and cream chocolate bars.  That was the only thing that got Fern through class—the perfection of Liz Purr’s skin beneath spaghetti-straps and tube tops, laid out like a feast for the next ninety minutes.

Fern knew she’d taste amazing.  She’d taste like whole milk, like butter and cream, like licking frosting from your fingertips.  She imagined running her tongue between the moles on Liz’s back, grooming her like a cat, making Liz roll her shoulders and giggle beneath the ministrations.

But after the day Fern saw Liz on the bed, stiff and glassy-eyed, the dreams were shattered.

After that, whenever Fern slid her hand down between her legs at night and conjured Liz in her mind, she could only see hard skin like cracked marble, woven with blood blisters and purple veins, bruises covering Liz’s neck and thighs like smudges of ink.  It made Fern squeeze her eyes shut and roll over in bed, the smell of death lingering on her fingertips.

Liz would always be beautiful—but she would never be Fern’s cookies-and-cream dream girl again.