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Excerpt from

The Quiet Type
Chia Evers

He hadn't meant to fuck the dead girl. Not the first time.

Someone else had fucked her already. Her dress was torn, and her panties were tangled around her feet. He tried to pull them up, but the elastic had snapped and her legs were so heavy and limp he couldn't wrestle them past her knees. "I'm sorry," he said, and put the panties in his pocket. They were warm. She was warm. She couldn't have been here long.

She lay in a drift of autumn leaves, half on her stomach, half on her side, her head turned to the left. Her eyes were green. He'd heard that the image of the last thing a dead person saw would be burnt onto the backs of their eyeballs, but when he bent down close to look, all he could see was his own reflection.

She didn't smell like death. She smelled like soap and lavender. Her dark hair brushed against his cheek when he leaned down to look into her face. He coiled a strand of it around his finger. He wondered what her panties smelled like, but he couldn't take them out and sniff them with her looking at him. He put his hand in his pocket, though, and fondled the silky fabric and stiff lace edging. Her scent clung to his fingers, so while he gathered firewood and set the coffeepot to boil he could rub the side of his nose and smell her without giving it away.

She was pretty, even with the bruises on her face and arms. He'd never shared his campfire with a woman before, alive or dead. He thought he could get used to it, though. Something to look at besides the stars and the trees and the road. But now the sun was setting, and he could hardly see her. He hadn't wanted to build the fire too close to the dry leaves she lay in. He didn't think she'd mind if he moved her. It was even more awkward than trying to put her panties back on earlier. Her body was stiff, and her flesh was cool. She'd lost one shoe already, so he took the other one off too, and dragged her across the clearing.

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