Warning: the following piece contains violence, cannibalism, and sexual situations. Reader discretion is advised.
© Jane Bled 2016-2017
Elsa discovered a pocket of warped metal in the midst of scouring the kitchen sink with a Brillo pad that resembled Mr. Turgid’s afro. Wishing to rectifying the flaw, she contemplated wedging her slight frame into the narrowed space beneath the sink to pound the underside with a hammer. Of late, her cups and plates had adopted the annoying habit of wobbling and tumbling every time she set them on or near the sink’s recess. Already she’d had to replace three wine glasses and one salad plate after they’d met their fate inside the concave dishes-death-trap. Elsa wouldn’t risk losing another object upon which to heap hearty helpings of flavorful food, her only friend.
As she prepared to squeeze into the cubbyhole below the source of inanimate losses, the chilly fog of uncertainty stilled her movements. The irrational notion that she had somehow set into motion a series of disastrous events by simply attempting to change that which had proved a structural weakness kept her stagnant; frozen between sticking to her original plan, and accepting the anomaly for what it would never be. Embracing imperfection would entail resolve she might not otherwise possess.
Before Elsa could change her mind, she scurried backwards out of the opening and crawled on clammy hands and knees toward the comfort of her open refrigerator. She breathed a blissful sigh of relief as climate-controlled coldness caressed her cheeks. A symphony gurgled in her stomach. She located the package of deli meat stashed in the cold cuts drawer and tore it open with her teeth. Shoveling gargantuan mouthfuls of processed, cured animal carcass into her salivating maw, Elsa squeezed her legs together to trap the lovely burn of anticipation — to save her carnal satisfaction for a private moment of release.
The dented sink slipped from her mind; disappeared, as she devoured portion after portion of salty salami, honey ham, and rare roast beef. Savagely, she grunted and snuffled like a wild swine driven mad by hunger-pangs that had just stumbled upon a feeding trough. She cared not for her appearance, though the thought crossed her mind as to what one might assume if one stumbled upon her middle-of-the-kitchen-floor pig-out. What would Mr. Turgid’s reaction be? Amusement? Disgust? Interest?
“Hello, Mr. Turgid.” She glanced inside the still-ajar refrigerator and smiled at the decapitated head partially turbaned in plastic on the top shelf. “I saved the best for last.”
Giggling, she scooped a pair of blood-splattered severed testicles from Mr. Turgid’s rigid “o”-shaped snarl — the last facial expression he’d articulated before succumbing to the artisan guillotine Elsa kept in her basement playroom. She gobbled down the cold cojones in two bites, squirreling away a morsel of each inside her bulging cheeks; sucking on the meat like chocolate to make it last.
Once sated, she stumbled towards the sink, euphoric from the seminal flavor of her sixth sucker. Fondly Elsa stroked the cranium-sized indentation marring the metal surface. On second thought, she rather liked it.
A pretty face did wonders.
Author’s tidbit: I picture Mr. Turgid as a Jonah Hill lookalike. No idea why. Sorry, Mr. Hill. Nothing personal. *shrugs*
Readers, if you’re craving another comped serving of horror flash fiction, Pen of the Damned offers bloody bites, buffet-style. Go ahead: overeat. 😉 I promise I won’t tell.
Have sensational weekend.