Tiny Horror

Precision. The blade is a needle in the eye of God. The high-rise was a box of glass and false promises. He was a heavy creature, a mountain of slow breath and redundant flesh. He didn't hear me. Nobody hears the shadow until it starts to bite. That was the last time the Visitor spoke clearly before the Great Desertion. It chose him, pointing a phantom finger at the window, whispering the coordinates into the meat of my brain. I was driven by its hunger, a puppet on strings made of cold lightning.

I moved with the grace of a fever. I carved a new mouth in his throat so he could finally speak the truth in bubbles and sighs. The Visitor leaned over my shoulder, its invisible fingers mimicking the path of my blade, obsessed with the geometry, the holy lines, the sacred intersections of vein and nerve. The blood was a map. We followed it to the center. When I was done, I scrubbed the porcelain until it sang, the Visitor watching from the steam in the mirror, satiated. I walked home in the cool air, stopping for milk, stopping for bread. The cashier looked at me and saw a person. A regular, breathing person. They didn't see the teeth behind my teeth. Then, the Visitor went silent. I tucked the blade away, a silver secret in a world of cardboard people, and I began the long wait.

The tale continues...