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Kosta

“I can find out,” says Sambethe. “Two hundred and a vial of synaesthetic.”

Kosta unwraps the bills from the vial, drops them and holds the glass up to catch the light.

“Excellent,” breathes Sambethe, removing her shawl. Her head is bald, a map of tattoos and scabbing, but what’s worst is the corks: seven of them, filling the holes in her skull. She removes the one over her ear, scraping off granulation.

“Trepanning,” says Kosta, ill.

“That’s for letting demons out,” Sambethe says. “This…” She uncaps the vial and screws it carefully in the cork’s place. “Is for letting them in.”

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