His footsteps follow me through moonlit backstreets, ever gaining, into the woods.
He shoves me against an old oak, tearing at my pretty dress, exposing the swirling, black tattoos beneath. Then the ink crawls and he halts, confused. He yelps as the black writhes up his arms, flowing from my flesh to his.
Later, when he is nothing but pulp and bone, the twitching tendrils slink back beneath my skin. They burn incessantly, day and night.
I take no pleasure, watching that show of slow laceration. I am grateful only that I am allowed to live, while I remain useful.
Sounds like she's found a good use for her curse!
ReplyDeleteI don't think she has much choice, Larry. =/
DeleteI was certainly hoping her tattoos would eat him. At least in fiction, such predators can be rendered prey.
ReplyDeleteIt's good to have the victim able to fight back, even if, ultimately, everyone is a victim to the beastie of the story...
DeleteI wonder if the tattoos only eat the bad people...
ReplyDeleteIf so then what does that say about the narrator, that she feels threatened herself...? Interesting question, Pete, my gut says no, but I think it would be more interesting if the tattoos had some kind of moral compass beyond 'predator'...
DeleteOoooh, I'd hate to meet her in a dark alley. Super concept and very well told story.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Deanna. =)
DeleteEloquent, dark.
ReplyDeleteShe is like a plague carrier, immune, deadly.
I can almost hear her silently calling...
"Come, fool, follow this easy prey... to your doom."
Nice work John. :-)
I'm not so sure she's immune, Steve, not if she can't keep the thing well-fed...
DeleteThanks. =)