She is miserable with body quivering; the muck falls off lips and slides down her mound of grime. Every gaze towards the feeble is never sated. Mara drools a mixture of saliva and blood, as well as dirt and disease. When alone, she resides in a corner, staring at her fingernails withering like blackening petals. It is a wall that she climbs, upwards to a window to be with mother.

Mother is the degrading figure laid upon soiled and bloodied sheets, staring at blackness as her eyes remain closed. It is here that Mara comes to dine. A feast of blood, a savoring of all droplets, mixed with the milk of woman from an ivory breast.

Once more, she places her hands upon rustic brick. Filthy claws grip roughness, while rags reveal a skeletal form. Sharp knees and celestial skin, and a visage where a jaw droops perpetually. Staring up towards the window, the moon’s gleam falls on long fangs that overlap her chin should the mouth close.

And the windowsill she places her trembling tapered fingers upon is rotting away in its wooden structure. Silently, she crawls inside. Silently, with a bent back, she shuffles over to the laying figure.

Such sympathy in Mara’s stare, once black and lifeless. In mother, only beautiful in her pallidity, but hideous in every crack on her lips, wrinkles on the cheeks. Nude in her flesh, the only modesty is a few ragged strands of cloth, ripped from Mara’s fingers. Her limbs are thin and twisted, as though squeezed from terrible force. A faint whisper uttered from Mara’s lips is heard by mother. Mara speaks this, replied by mother:

“O Mother, sleep is your state, though sleep does not run the blood furiously. I beg you to become fearful. Race the heart in loud beats, as I must listen.” The voice is guttural, though quiet.

“Mara, know your mother is your blood. Your gift is the breast that fed you, and the breast you own is the breast of nourishment. Feed upon me, as you give to others. As I have comforted, comfort others. All infants tremble in your caress, silence their cries with a soft touch, and careful glance.”

Once more, Mara sinks her teeth into a soft breast. A tongue is extended which catches the blood from tiny spurts. Once more, she drinks. Every bit of her withered appearance dissipates into smooth, and wondrous beauty. Full lips now red with glistening fangs no longer extended over the lips, though exposed should the lips be parted. There are the dark eyes which mingle in the grayness of the room. She wields now a handsome form wrapped in immaculate cloth, and a step so light, she now passes through the door.

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