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Daddy's Little Devil

Sometimes, Empathy Kills

By Vulture WriterPublished 3 years ago 3 min read
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Daddy's Little Devil
Photo by Nathália Rosa on Unsplash

Eyes unseen, Jack knew the little girl standing at the center of the aisle was staring at him. Jack gave a muted wave.

Still, the girl stared at him from under matted and ropy hair.

The perfect feeling when you wake up from an unexpected nap and the room is growing dim as is outside. You are still warm from the sun beaming through the window as you slept. There's nothing.

Nothing going on. Nothing in your mind. Nowhere to go. The chaos of plans and destinations and expectations and betrayals are all absent, not even concepts in your mind.

All there is the pleasant feeling of waking, grateful for being rested. You don't even know enough to hold onto that feeling, because if you did, it would drain out of you like water sluicing over the bottom of barely parted lips and flowing, and slowing to a trickle until the last drop fell to the floor.. so when it does finally leave it is a shock.

The innocent joy that embraced your body only seconds before is washed away with a slow and steady depression made all the worse by the knowledge that you not only were happy, but that it was taken away. A sham.

Never really there.

That is what Jack felt as he stared at the bloody girl in the middle of the bread and chip aisle of Jansen's Grocers & Deli. The whole course of feelings in one serving, looking into her eyes. Jack looked around. They were alone.

The twelve-year-old was dressed in light blue pajama bottoms with dancing, cherubim-like unicorns. Smeared in mud. The pant legs covered her feet, pooling onto the black-speckled white linoleum floor and blended into the spreading puddle of mud. The hollow in his chest for won't of joy was given to him by the girl, passed through his eyes from behind the long strands of dirty blond hair that ended just above the pretty pink script on her grey sleep shirt that read 'Daddy's Little Devil'.

Schlop, smack. Schlop, smack.

She took two steps toward him, her gaze never wavering.

Schlop, smack. Schlop, smack.

She came closer. He could now see that it was blood smearing from the puddle behind her. He saw that her hair was not black, but just soiled, dirty blonde hair.

Schlop, smack. Schlop, smack.

Now he could see the tips of her fingers were black and crusted.

Jack dropped his red basket. It bounced and landed on its side. The tortilla chips' bag crinkled and the jar of salsa skittles across the tile, sounding like two metal balls fighting it out on Newton's Cradle.

What tethered him to this world was draining out of him. Blood sluiced over the bottom of his barely parted lips and poured down the front of his shirt. However, it did not slow to a trickle. Instead, it continued to run, dripping down his chin in rivulets. He made no effort to staunch the flow as his tan work shirt was shiny and thick with blood.

Schlop, smack. Schlop, ssmack.

As he continued to slip into the void, he caught the sense of beings larger than himself. Wide and thick cords of wet flesh ran over his legs. The wind from wings and the rot of carrion wafted into his face.

The last time he drifted into the world he called reality, he was on his knees in a pool of his own blood. The girl was upon him. Her face was an inch away from his. He could smell the carrion from the void as her low, rapid breathing forced air up his nose.

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