william V2

William looked into the murderer’s window, the sun not yet up, and into the inky blackness within. There was a trace of blood streaked at the edge of the window.

The cobblestones beneath Williams’s feet sucked his warm life from his feet, though the lattice of holes in his shoes that had formed due to the nature of the village’s poverty, and left a cold, empty, lonely, scared shell behind on the pavement, and only the thought of his family kept him from standing there, and getting frostbite on his toes.

The door rasped open as William pushed at it, the edges scraped along the wooden floor, forcing a thorny path of splinters rise up, waiting eagerly for William to impale his foot on, and draw his blood.

He did.

Though only a small injury, it tore at Williams’s confidence, and as he turned to leave, the door closed with an ominous click, that in the silence was as loud as a scream for help.

William backed up slowly, and tried to fold his limbs in four more places than was possible to sink into a corner, but it was too late. He had been seen. The monster’s loose sleeves were browned with the professional way his weapon sliced into the souls of many, and leaving none living. The caress of its most recent victim, torn to pieces and spread around the town, was at now at rest from the torture the monster had inflicted with cold proficiency, and was positioned on the table. The heavy boot landed, and William, who was a weedy man, and was nervous with everyone but his parents, saw the large hulking brute advance. Drops of oval, ruby blood followed the monsters footsteps as he stumbled past tables and slabs of meat, and William almost fainted to think what kind of meat.

Closer.

The bulky mass of muscle punched its way into the centre of Williams’s eyesight

Closer.

The individual veins stood out, as if unneeded to fuel this biological tank, and it ran on hatred alone.

Close

Then the monster was upon William.

it started as a primeval growl, as it slowly lifted with his cleaver, and the veiny lips sucked the ashen face inward, as if the rage that must consume such a beast was uncontrollable, and had tried to consume himself, managed to formed a word.

Before the word had even been breathed into the rusty air, Williams’s recent life flashed before him, his quest, the beaten road, his family, who would starve because William will fail.

Though simple, this word was deep, primitive and eerie growl, that vibrated Williams’s bones, shoulders jarring out of place, and knees jolted from their sockets.

“What”

Before the word had even died on its blood-filled rims of its cavernous mouth, had the next been diced, marinated and forced out

“Do”

His uneven teeth snapped and tore at the end of the last word, and the next word was strangled, and unused

“You”

Unfortunately, William had a huge imagination, and before the next attack of mucus cored saliva had left its mouth, the words “Taste Like” was playing in his mind. The words were the cat, and reason was the mouse. It was cornered, and the words just played, strumming and rallying fear and terror into play, making reason give up and commit suicide.

“Want?”

Had reason seen reason to preserve its metaphorical life, this would have been expected, and told the brain to reply with, “half a pound of sausages please, sir”