Three Small Bites

Cindy

My art is dying. When I go, I don’t think there will be many left to keep the craft alive. And of those left, none can match me. I am the last great master, and my name will go down in history.

The stage lights blaze into my eyes as the curtain raises. The usual momentary blindness means I cannot see my audience but judging by their loud applause we have a full house.

The theater is small though, at the back of this seedy Vegas casino.

Cindy sits on my lap. She’s my latest. Strangely, as my career comes to its inevitable last curtain call, I’m taking even more care over the preparation of my dummies.

I’ve been an hour preparing Cindy this evening. I made sure every strand of her lovely blonde hair was in place. Her blue eyes are bright and clean. I buy the best glass ones available. Her cheeks are rosy with blusher. Her little white pinafore dress with its yellow polka dots looks perfect. It’s arranged just so, and voluminous enough to hide my arm. My hand is tightly squeezed through the hole in the back of her head.

I’m in my best-performing suit and bow tie, shiny shoes and brill-creamed hair. I wonder who looks better, me or Cindy?

It’s her of course.

Cindy could outshine Marylin Monroe!

We both look up at the audience and smile as my age-old routine begins. It’s the afternoon family show, so I remind myself to leave out the vulgarities.

I go about my stagecraft effortlessly, years of mastery coming to the fore. Cindy is a hit, with her southern belle accent and innocent questioning that makes me feign frustration. The crowd is laughing. Those that thought my art already dead are the most surprised. They’re nudging their partners, fascinated, as they can’t see my lips move.

I am the most expert thrower of voice, and my hand opens and closes Cindy’s jaw with consummate precision and timing.

My eyes adjust to the glaring lights now, and I can make out the front row.

A little black girl, with a purple dress and cute afro hair, sits between her parents. She loves the show — all squirming and giggles. I wonder if she’s staying in this hotel.

Maybe I will make just one more dummy.

Cindy won’t last much longer, after all.

Her rotting skin has begun to show through the makeup.

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Mister Nibbles

Mister Nibbles brought me another treat in the night. I wish he wouldn’t, but I suppose it’s his way of saying thanks for looking after him. He thinks I need feeding.

At least this time it’s an intact body. Not like that time he dragged just a bottom half up the stairs, leaving a trail of blood across the carpet before depositing it at the foot of my bed. Gross!

I named him Mister Nibbles because he has this cute but annoying habit of nibbling my ear when I’m trying to sleep. He snuggles his face right up under my chin then finds my ear lobe and gives me lots of little bites. His teeth never sink in too far though, and I can tell he enjoys it. The contended “nom nom” sound he makes is deafening right up in my ear. And it tickles something terrible. I have to stroke his back, the power of my strokes pulling his mouth away until he gives up.

Mister Nibbles is a weird little bugger!

I’ve had him two years now. Although you know what they say, maybe I belong to him as much as he belongs to me. He just turned up one day, moping around the garden looking mournful and hungry. So, I took him in and fed him. And the rest is history. I no longer sleep alone at nights (when I get to sleep that is, after all the nibbling). I’m not worried about being single anymore. Mister Nibbles is all I need for companionship.

I love him so much. He’s loyal, and he doesn’t judge. I can eat what I want; wear what I want. Heck, I can walk around the house naked if I want. I tell him all my secrets, knowing that he’ll love me no matter what.

I wish he’d stop bringing me these night-time treats, though. I will have to wash the bedding again. And bury his latest prey in the back garden. This one looks like a beautiful specimen too. No sign of bite marks. It looks like he just broke its neck. Poor thing.

Damn, it’s still twitching. That means I have to finish it with a whack on the head. Can’t let it suffer.

How can I convince him to stop doing this? It’s time we had a chat. As I head down the stairs with the body, I can hear him in the kitchen, slurping his milk. He looks up as I walk in.

“Mister Nibbles. You know I love you right? But you’ve got to stop depositing bodies in our bed!”

He puts down the glass of milk and smiles as he stands up and saunters across the kitchen. Those thin lips curl back from gleaming white teeth, just like they do when he nibbles my ear.

“Aww. I thought you’d like this one, she’s a beauty, isn’t she? And I was so careful. See? No blood anywhere!”

Mister Nibbles licks the dying woman’s hair, and a glint appears in his eyes.

“Don’t get the spade just yet, let’s play with her first.”

I sigh. “Mister Nibbles, you’re so naughty!”

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Guardian Angel

The window was open just enough to let in the cool night air.

That was very careless of you.

I frown at your sleeping form. But you sought reprieve from the oppressive heat of the day. I forgive you.

In sleep, and this close, you are even more beautiful than when I watch you from afar during your days.

Our days.

I kneel for my nightly prayers, for the first time beside you. So close.

I pray to whatever created me that you will remain mine. That I will maintain the strength to care for you, and the control to keep my distance. Have I just now lost some of that control? I pray that I haven’t. But I know that I cannot resist this new intimacy. I must be this close for all the nights to come.

Our nights.

A police siren stirs your sleep. I step back and fade into the shadows of your room. You should be familiar with these city sounds by now. It’s been two years since I followed you from that small country town to the capital.

I whisper, “Shush. It’s okay, my darling. It’s not meant for us.”

I yearn to put a finger on your closed lips. How soft they are. I want to touch them. Would you feel me? Would you feel my fingers if I ran them through your long black hair? Or the palm of my hand if I cupped your breast? Or my fingertip as it ran down the bumps of your spine?

Night sweat shines on your skin in the moonlight as you curl into your favourite shape.

You are nude in the city heat, immodest in the sanctuary of your private boudoir.

And you are safe, under my watch.

The man who followed you home last month bears testimony to my protection. His body will be showing bone by now, in the city sewer. His intent was clear, as was mine. I saw the blade as he closed the distance behind you. He sank it neatly into his own neck, with the help of my guiding hand. And you returned home safely once again.

Nothing will harm you and you will want for nothing, not under my watch. I have the wealth and power of two hundred years of toil. And it is yours. I am yours.

And you are mine.

Time passes by unnoticed as I drink from your beauty. Another silent prayer is answered when you roll from your side to your back. My love is revealed to me.

You are exquisite.

Leaning over your body, my mouth an inch from yours, I’m overwhelmed by desire to kiss you.

Instead, I inhale. Deeply. The scent of your female youth. Of soap and skin. Of sweat and sex. Yes, I can smell your sex and it is divine. It is life itself.

Sleep well my love. I will see you tomorrow.

We have long lives to live, you and I.