Elena Kane

The cathedral’s howl when I scribbled NO was more than noise—it was a force crashing against us like a speeding subway train stealing the air from my lungs and making the scalpel drop from Mamá’s grasp. The atmosphere grew dense shifting to a red sludge as if we were suffocating in blood yet to be shed. The reflections, in the pews rose as one, their red light intensifying into fierce crimson jaws parting simultaneously to reverberate the heart’s rage. Marco’s golden beam ...