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“It wasn't lost on him, the poetry, the symmetry of this last bite. Everything had begun with a taste of liver. Now it would end with one. Kostya reached inside himself, to the place in his gut that felt inevitable, an entry point, its emptiness like a door. He reached for his dad. For Frankie. For the other side. He could almost feel the hands of the Dead reaching out for him in turn. He placed the pufferfish liver onto his tongue. Wet, cold, slippery with blood. Toxic, exotic, a once-in-a-lifetime taste. He chewed hard, fast, before he lost his nerve. Fatty, mineral, metallic, cream. Bitter, in the back of his throat. Tears streamed down his face. Liquid fear. Like salt, he told Maura, instead of goodbye, and swallowed.” — Daria Lavelle
It wasn't lost on him, the poetry, the symmetry of this last bite.
Everything had begun with a taste of liver. Now it would end with one.
Kostya reached inside himself, to the place in his gut that felt inevitable, an entry point, its emptiness like a door. He reached for his dad. For Frankie. For the other side.
He could almost feel the hands of the Dead reaching out for him in turn.
He placed the pufferfish liver onto his tongue.
Wet, cold, slippery with blood.
Toxic, exotic, a once-in-a-lifetime taste.
He chewed hard, fast, before he lost his nerve.
Fatty, mineral, metallic, cream. Bitter, in the back of his throat.
Tears streamed down his face. Liquid fear.
Like salt, he told Maura, instead of goodbye, and swallowed.