Roman was right. It did not take long before Jeffrey stopped moving, either from passing out from the pain or having finally succumbed to death. Roman briefly stopped at this point, saying a prayer for the spirit who’d passed. When he finished his task, he stood up. All of his clothes were covered in blood. Blood on his pants. Blood on his shirt. Hands dripping with blood. He dropped the knife, unconcerned now if it wasn’t within his reach. He stretched his back and the crack of his joints echoed. Then he leaned down and picked on a piece of Jeffrey’s face, pulling on the skin as it peeled off. He held it in the air in front of him, this skinned face. Jeffrey’s face. It looked thin, like wet paper. Blood fell from the hanging flap into the dirt. Roman let it fall, waiting for the last of it. When the blood had slowed, he brought the flesh near to his own, slowly breathed in the scent. He closed his eyes and inhaled. He took another breath before bringing this mask of skin to his face, layering it on top of his own.

There was more to be done.

When Mira was a girl she had once stood outside while the boy she loved roamed this plantation taking photographs. After, he’d asked her what she’d seen and she couldn’t bear to speak it. Some horrors were unspeakable, unimaginable even, but weren’t they all until they happened?

While she had waited for him to come back to her, she’d seen a man wearing the stolen face of another. Hidden deep under the straw, Mira saw the man again.

Tools meant for work became seen as weapons.

Tools meant for work became seen as weapons. Fingers ran across the sickle’s serrated edge to test its sharpness. Clipping shears were cleaned free of their animal hair. They collected what they could to use—the scythes and trowels, rakes and hoes. Any object that glinted in the sun they stole because even a shovel could wound with enough force.

Their days were filled with a different dream. Of sparing none as they crept up the stairs in the hope of finding their masters. To stand in the shadow of the moonlight before they thrusted the metal into the soft flesh. Blood pooling, soaking the fabric of their clothes and sheets. Death would come quick because they’d be quick, for there would be more to meet before their night was through.

Just because you want to doesn’t mean you can, their brethren warned when they heard of the plan. You don’t know what’s in your heart until the moment comes.