Seventeen
There's a little shop downstairs that sells organ soup. It's always packed with customers. People line up as if bewitched, eager for a bowl.
I've often wondered what secret ingredient made their soup so irresistible.
This afternoon, I finally found my answer. Floating in my bowl was a piece of human skin—inked with a tattoo I knew all too well.
It was the one etched on my boyfriend's arm.