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by divine right


Notes

You know Mikhail Chernikov is dead by the smell.
When he looks up from his desk, framed by curls of burning incense, his eyes meet yours. No light reflects back. He doesn't blink, but instead puts a pipe to his lips and inhales the thick, white smoke of opium. Where you should smell the sickly sweet scent of it, there is only the stench of rot.
You think of slicing him open at the gut, spilling his organs onto the floor and mopping them up with the bottom of your boots.


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6 comments on by divine right


 
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