Requiem for Montreat, Fitt the First
The needle rose and fell, repetitively slamming into my ribcage. I lay stock still— arm outstretched above my head; shirtless and immune to everything but the “purrrr” of Markita’s gun. She was Ukrainian, fully sleeved with original artwork, hunched over me like an archeologist. But instead of uncovering artifacts, she was creating one.