Brandish clenched her fists.

“I lost track.  I forgot how to change her back.”

Well, fuck.

A caricature.  A twisted reflection of how Amy saw Victoria, the swan curve of the nape of the neck, the delicate hands, and countless other features, repeated over and over again throughout.  It might even have been something objectively beautiful, had it not been warped by desperation and loneliness and panic.  As overwhelming as the image and the situation had been in Amy’s mind, Victoria was now equally imposing, in a sense.  No longer able to move under her own power, her flesh spilled over from the edge of the mattress and onto the floor.

Art.

She’s a coddamn sculpture of the beauty Amy saw in her.

Bonesaw would approve. This, this right here, is why she could relate to Amy.

And you know what? I’m sure Victoria is happy like this. Because Amy wanted her to be, and made it so.

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