MicroHorror

So I drift through the blank air, hands clasped while my tentacles wave free and wild. There’s a contrast–such a very great one!–between the tentacled lower half of me and the upper half, which is Victorian and respectable. A hat, a veil, a closely fitting, high-necked black blouse. And my face, its alarmed expression.

How can we–your father and I–explain our nature? It wasn’t always so, I can assure you of that. Ours was a love match, between a blushing maiden not long out of the schoolroom and a manly youth. Both of good family and reputation, neither at that time plagued by snake-like appendages. However, as a child I had a vivid imagination and felt drawn–always–to the unnatural, to freaks and curiosities. Perhaps this is why I myself became this nightmarish thing. As for your father, well.

Poor man, his anguish is greater even than mine. For he remains almost entirely civilized–legs and feet, pinstriped suit and necktie–save for the vile horror sprouting from his sleeve. As though in danger of being attacked by it, he holds his arm away from his side, while with his remaining hand, the left one, he covers his eyes, in a melodramatic gesture.

Darling, I always dreamed of having a little girl like you, with fair hair and an innocent expression. But not quite the same as you. Different below the neck.