Elena Vasquez

Four days until the wedding.

The city began to bleed more.

Not red veins or subway ichor this time.

Just blood. Human. Real. Ours.

It started with Marco.

He descended for breakfast looking as pale as rice paper with silver scars shining gold beneath the skin, on his forearms. As he reached toward the coffee pot his sleeve slipped up. Revealed it: a fine line of blood oozing from the scar stretching from wrist to elbow, flawless and straight as if sketched with a scalpel ...