after interviewing Wailing woman in front of Faceless man, blood oozing out from his back and right ear, as though in awkward prayer in a dark alley

The death card in a pre-Halloween party, was it called that way, did long-haired Dulce who read my cards (my cards? something new now for wasted me with nothing I can call my own), the death card that came fourth among three other rectangles with drawings in them I can't recognize, that card which reminded me of Nanay and her skin and bones, lying there somewhere in a house I once called my house, my home. Nanay there in her sickness that ate away her body, but not her eyes that scanned the house, or did she try to look inside of me; was she afraid, too?