Elena Kane

Nineteen hours until midnight.

The city no longer acts as anything, than a predator.

All streetlights throughout Brooklyn have turned red beating in unison with the crimson vein that has reemerged beneath Isla’s skin in all the pictures we possess of her (each baby portrait every birthday photo, every unposed image, from the restaurant). The vein shines intensely in each recent photo as if the city itself is ticking down within her very blood.

Her body has not been ...