A killer ponders passing on while rationalizing mass murder, with a supernatural spin to it. One-shot.

Nameless

Food is good.

Whether we make it or take it, we need it to live.

Living is good.

Dying is bad even though it's far easier to die, like this teenage girl blankly staring into my eyes. And they say things like, "Don't fear the inevitable," and "It's natural," but do you know what else is natural? Fear of the unknown.

Why else would humans make up stories of afterlives to make themselves feel better?

There's nothing wrong with being afraid. When your vision is graying, becoming tunnel vision, there is nothing wrong with fearing what lies beyond the tunnel. That's what I told this girl, even as my filthy hands were clamped around her soft, hot neck (currently cold and purple).

I'd repeated my mantra, both in my head and aloud:

"It's okay to be scared, it's alright." Now hold still while I force the life out of your body so that I may live. "Don't fight it, give up." Give in so that I don't have to.

I kept repeating until those bulging brown eyes stopped rolling, and she was still.

She was once my friend, but only now do I see her: the pouty lips and heart-shaped face framed by brown curls…This cadaver was my friend Emma once. She'd walked right up to me, all teary-eyed and asking questions I couldn't answer about how I'd went missing.

At least now we have something in common again: icy cold skin, with hearts to match.

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Greeting Death is predictable, but the way you meet it isn't. It can be old age, an eighteen-wheeler truck or disease, or something like me. Yes, a monster like me, one that hates itself but is willing to kill a friend to keep it's rotting body alive.

Such can happen. There might not even be remains to be found. Like a body.

There is no need to dump this petite, pale corpse. No need to dump Emma.

Mine is not the only growling stomach.

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I close my eyes and suddenly I am walking down some street with flushed cheeks and only a scarf for the cold weather, tasting the wind on my tongue then feeling warm breath on my cheek.

"Claire, is that you?" The owner of the warm air asks, and I know what his name was: Matt. His hands are as calloused and sweaty as ever as they grab my shoulders.

I am twirled around to see a nice face, a stocky body, and wide green eyes.

None of Matt's friends are nearby. Almost no one is on this darkening street.

Matt, who had been able to drive me to tears as a stupid human girl with sweet words and intricately weaved lies, is gripping his death by the shoulders.

I blink hard. A fake grin is glued to my face as I stare up at him and squeak, "Matt?"


Matt is happy. He is almost crying. That would have meant something to me in another life, but…He was no longer the person called Matt to me.

I'd loved Matt as a person, with all of my heart.

I love this boy with all of my stomach, which is already rumbling for slaughter.

I love the look in his eyes as my claws dig into him, but Matt is not here.

This boy's name is Dinner.

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