bones
forward on the balls of your feet, being extra careful aware of the tiny thing as you pluck it from the carpet; turn it over and over and over in your hands. under the dim Olive Garden light it smiles very sweetly, deflecting the light off of itself just /so/ and into your kind-of-gaunt-but-not-all-that-bad face. stars.
you notice that it can't even fit over the tip of your littlest finger.
you right yourself very slowly. slow enough to register the different little pushes and pulls of muscle and bone. slow enough for dozens of eyes to notice and look on, dripping with pity.
you straighten the collar of your shirt, smooth back your hair, pay the bill and leave a twenty-dollar tip.
you slip the ring into your pocket and start walking sort of funny lopsided under its delicate weight.
the smell of perfume lingers, warm and lovely, in the air.
she was like arsenic.
sweet and unassuming on the surface, but underneath—
a slow killer.
she gets you from the inside—bones and blood vessels and skin and spit.
she makes you sick.
she hollows you out.
she just eats and eats and eats and eats and keeps eating until there is nothing left.
and the best part is: no one will ever know.
not even you.
they have been with him since the eighth grade.
black and dirty and very tired, with once-white laces that are horribly frayed at the ends—they have seen things.
from the days where he liked his eyes lined black and his music too-loud, to now, years later, where he cradles them almost-lovingly in his hands, they have been his constant companions.
they have watched him grow.
he regards them for one long moment, then sends them flying.
they land in the dumpster with a hollow thud.
she hugs her teddy to her chest. fingers, tiny and dimpled, grip the plush fabric until the knuckles turn white.
something is watching her.
through the dark she can feel rather than see the eyes leering from the bedside. It whispers pretty things in a voice slurred by serrated teeth. twisted talons reach for her.
she screams.
her mother is at the door in an instant, fumbling with the switch on the wall.
the room is flooded with a blinding light.
It is gone.
he turns over in the dark, stiff sheets rustling about their legs, and stares. he tries to find her in this woman's sleeping face, but finds that he cannot.
large, steady hands softly move stray strands from Her face.
"I don't know who you are anymore."