My Beautiful Wife
My beautiful wife doesn’t say a word as lingerie slips from her body and forms a silky white pool at her feet. A smile appears on her face. It is a hollow smile, one that masks an inner demon.
“Are you feeling all right?” I ask, hoping that fear doesn’t lace my voice. She looks at me, puzzled at my words.
“Of course, honey,” she replies and smiles even wider revealing jagged fangs that gleam in the room’s light.
My mouth goes dry as I watch her fling her long black hair back behind her head only to have it cascade towards her face again. She giggles, at first gently and seductively, but it soon flows into a deeper and more malevolent tone. I watch her stroll towards the bathroom.
“I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” she sings with the voice of an angel. I hear her laugh at her choice of words. “Sweetheart. How ironic,” she hums. “That young man did have a sweet heart. Very sweet indeed.”
I don’t know what she is but I love her regardless. The old saying that you can’t help whom you fall in love with is very true.
When we met I was to become her next meal but for some reason she did not harm me. Instead, she courted me.
I’ll never forget the looks on the faces of those poor people who she took that night we met. The look of terror on them remained even after their heads lay in bloody piles next to what was left of their bodies.
I click on the television to pass the time because I know all too well that my wife can take quite a while sometimes. A very petite and pretty news lady comes on the screen talking somberly about a series of grisly murders in the city. Her almond blue eyes and red lips do well in concealing her fear but I do notice that she is slightly trembling. A smile creeps on my face. I know very well who is responsible for the killings.
My wife eventually emerges from the bathroom and flings herself onto our bed next to me. I can see the hunger in her eyes but I am confident that I am safe.
And our night begins.
Teeth have formed in the palms of her delicate hands and she swings them high above her head in erotic arcs. The flesh on her face begins to run, revealing festering sores underneath, and from her back sprout dozens of minuscule appendages that writhe with blind desire.
I wake up to the sun. I pull myself out of bed ignoring my protesting back and prepare myself a cup of tea. As I drink I look around the room. It’s littered with discarded clothes and leftover food containers. I begin to look for my duffel bag. I know I will need it that evening so it does not take very long before my searching becomes somewhat frantic.
After failing to locate it I suddenly recall where I left it. I run to my truck and swing the door open. To my great joy my bag stares back at me from the front seat. The bag surrenders its contents to my eyes. I check my tools as I have done so many times before. The scalpels are sharp and gleam in the morning sun and the hacksaws and hammers flank the scalpels like children nestled next to their mother. And the crudest, but most important tool, the revolver, lies in the far corner of the bag. It reminds me of an employer keeping a watchful eye on his workers.
I zip the bag back up and tuck it behind the seat. Although I have a long night ahead of me I won’t be leaving until after dinner so there’s no real rush to get ready.
I saunter casually back into the house, sipping my tea.
