Literature
cervidae
The pastor's wife was smiling, her grin just a little too wide. She had teeth on her, and you wondered, somewhere inside, if she had had work done. They were perfectly white, and even, and you had absolutely no way of asking what she'd done with them. You knew that the tongue behind them was awfully sharp, and you didn't really want to get a tongue lashing today. After all, your sibling--your brother, the congregation had made the mistake of calling them--was in a casket in the next room over. If Carol-Ann tried to talk to you any sort of way, you feared you'd go full on insane. You felt a hand on your back, beginning to rub small circles. You felt the sharp, manicured nails--it was either your mama, or Marie from the congregation. Marie, probably. The rubbing against your back was just a little too aggressive. Your mother would have known to mind the bruises. She'd been the one to help you cover them in concealer before the funeral, after all, and helped you pick the stiff black
