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Day Twenty-One: Saccharine

You don’t see the whole thing all at once. And you feel that it’s there before you see the curled fingers of a hand, partially concealed, behind the leg of a piece of furniture. Maybe you feel it because you’re expecting it - are hoping that’s what it is. Not in a normal human way, but in a brutal, morbid way - this is what childhood curiosity evolves into as we age. That and a constant desire to be shocked and appalled. To be moved by something.


It’s partly the smell too, at a particular stage. If you’ve ever had a deer get hit on the highway behind the cottage, had it wander, dying, through to the woods to finally expire just out of sight in the back of the garden, in your mum’s towering hydrangeas, you’ll know what I mean. It’s sweet. Sickly sweet. Not what you’d expect.


Or you’ll maybe know the smell if you’ve ever had a pigeon die up inside your chimney.


Or if you’ve ever come across a massacred family of raccoons in the hayloft.

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