Dahlia

She lifts me like I weigh nothing. One hand. No effort behind it. My feet leave the floor, legs dangling like I’m a toy held up by a child. 

The worst part?

I can’t fight back. 

The pressure on my throat is growing. It isn’t fast or sudden, but slow. My clone is savoring this, loving every last broken breath coming out of my mouth. My vision swims. The edges of the world go foggy. Everything slows.

“Breathe slower,” she whispers. “I want you ...