Unnameable, Grudging, Vengeful Destruction.

My daughter was home for the summer and I left it all to her. I trusted her to do the job and do it well. On that day she didn't call for my help. When I saw my sister, contorted, dashed on the cold pavement of our flat, screaming she wanted to die, repeating we were going to lock her up, that we were ill-intentioned, that if we picked up the phone to call an ambulance she would die... And she, was there, holding her, holding on, keeping her tightly in her arms, whispering, hushing, sweating, with no other expression on her face but frigid determination. I could not recognise her; she, was my daughter? She, was there, on the floor, getting hurt, stronger than ever. Would she ever forgive me?

Six shots and the sky bled invisible, caustic driblets of pain on the horizon. One! My sister. Broken and dry, nothing could patch her up. Two! My cousin. He was beginning to show the first symptoms of the illness. Three! My face. The arid personification of my life. Four! My husband. More of a nomad than ever. Five! The lurking fear: was it coming for me? Six! Not my daughter...

And the signpost read: “The Desert of the Furies”.