shredded
by technically okay

He said he loved her.
His tone was sweet, his eyes were sparkling.
There was nothing that made her think he was scary.
He reminded her of Grandpa.

She was only seven years old.

He said that he had a dollhouse
complete with two brand new dolls in lacy dresses
with full, thick curls of hair tied up with
satin ribbons.

She believed him.

And so she went with him to the rundown shack.

It was dark and dusty in there.
Gloomy. It smelled like mold.
The windows were grimy and hardly any light came through.

She knew something was wrong when he touched her
down where her mother told her to cover
by closing her legs daintly as she sat.

No one heard her screams.

And as she was sobbing, he killed her.
He tore her flesh from her bones,
and created a feast for himself.

So all she became was a shredded wheat biscuit.

She was delicious. The third he'd had that week.
That's what he told the executioner as he stepped up the scaffold.

And the stony-faced executioner turned and vomited.

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P/N: Inspired by the life of serial killer Andrei Chikatilo (the Rostov Ripper).

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