In Hindu tantric tradition, the goddess Chinnamasta is represented as a naked, full-breasted sixteen-year-old girl, her body the color of the hibiscus flower, which is also the color of blood. Traditionally, she stands above a couple in coitus, and has just a moment ago sliced off her own head. She holds her still-dripping scimitar in one hand and her own severed head in the other. Her long black hair hangs loose. She is inclined toward lust. From her neck erupt three shooting fountains of blood, two of which are caught in the mouths of her two female attendants, and the last of which makes its arc into the mouth of her own severed head. All three mouths suck greedily at the blood of the goddess. All three bodies wear garlands of skulls around their necks. A snake often slips among the garlands. Chinnamasta is revered for her sexual power, her fury, her self-sacrifice, and for her embodied reminder that life, death, and sex are inseparable, forever wound (wound: the word’s multiple meanings do not escape me in this moment). She is sometimes interpreted as being a symbol of sexual restraint and sometimes interpreted as a symbol of sexual energy. She represents death as well as immortality, self-destruction as well as self-renewal. She is a reminder that life feeds on death. She is a reminder that death requires life. She is not widely worshipped. She is considered to be too dangerous to approach, even in supplication.

The three of us stood, staring at Serena crumpled on the ground. Her face was pale. I felt a black cavern opening up underneath me. My limbs felt heavy and immobile, filled with black sand. You’re a beautiful girl, Olivia. I looked at Luke, and he too was frozen. Serena had been right. This had something to do with him, with his presence here, his body filling the space that until tonight had been only ours. Janet and Laurel were deviations in the darkness somewhere in my peripheral vision. We stood. We stared.

Finally, one of us—it was Laurel—screamed.

We lurched forward as one body, arms outstretched. But Luke got there first. He moved Serena onto the futon, cradled her head in his large hands, and I felt a pang wholly unrelated to her safety. He brushed her hair out of her face and she opened her eyes.

“That was incredible,” she said. She sat up, pushing Luke away and rubbing her head. I looked for the hole that had let out so much blood and saw only a little cut, the tiniest sliver, near her hairline. She pressed on it, closing her eyes.

“I felt it. I was so close,” she said. She arched her back, rolling her head on her neck. The toes on her left foot spread apart. The toes on her right foot stayed pressed together.

“Did you see it?” I said.