LOOK AT US, she cries. We are monsters.
She looks the table saw between the eyes and before anyone has time to respond she has flipped the switch to on, wrenching life into that shuddering beast starved so for wood or flesh, and she cries aloud like a toddler backed into some corner, eyeballs white, torn skyward to an absent god. She plunges her face forward and she is an explosion of color and sound and much detritus is hurled and spattered over the room and over her gaping classmates. The quiet girl is dead.

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