The bland taste of the grandmother made me want the girl even more. The woman barely fought back, so ancient and fatigued by illness, that I felt no satisfaction from the kill. Flesh tore easily from her sagging arms as if attached by thread, skin rippled with toughened wrinkles and thick layers of flavorless fat.
I hadn’t eaten in so long I forced myself to finish her, yawning as I surveyed the remnants of my disappointing meal. Splinters of pliant bones, strands of wiry gray hair, emancipated teeth scattered like a grim divination of runes.
Usually I was exhausted after eating a human, but my belly rumbled with displeasure and impatience for more.
And then I heard her, careless footsteps skipping along the cottage’s stone path, singing a saccharine hymn to her nonexistent god. Ears perked, tongue lolled, yellow eyes glowing, my jaws spread into an eager, lascivious smile. I leapt from the bed and crouched into the dark corner of the room, which inexplicably smelled more like an unwashed old woman than a recent kill.
She knocked once, then opened the door, calling out for her deceased grandmother. “I’ve brought you bread and cheese,” she called out. “Shall I make tea?” My limbs trembled with anticipation.
She babbled inanities, the unseasonably balmy weather, the health of her parents, how much she loved her new cape. At last, carrying a wooden tray of mismatched cups of tea, she strode into the bedroom, red cape billowing behind her. Then, a beat of bewildered silence, a gasp, a crash, splash of medicinal-smelling tea.
Lantern eyed, I rose to full height, claws clicking on the wooden floor. Her eyes widened with recognition. She glanced from the empty, defiled bed to me, hackles stiff with her grandmother’s flavorless blood. I leapt for her, teeth ensnaring only the thick wool of her cape as she bolted. Finally, a hunt.
She ran outside, stumbling over rotted logs, breaths labored, louder than a hunter’s bugle. I dashed alongside her, imperceptible in the mass of shadowed trees, relishing the scent of panic and sweat. Her hair caught in a tangle of skeletal branches, she screamed, and I vaulted onto her back.
She crunched so readily in my teeth, youthful skin an invitation into the tender, moist flesh beneath. I’d never tasted anything so succulent, her muscles unburdened by the taut effects of adult labors. Perfect congruity of fat, blood tangy and thick.
I managed to consume the meat of her limbs and torso, her heart on my tongue, when the axe severed my spine. So engrossed in my feast, I hadn’t noticed the approach of the woodcutter. Truthfully, even as death emptied my lungs and stilled my heart, I felt no pain, her sweet flesh an analgesic. Instead, I felt only gratitude. My last meal could have been that vile crone.
Teeth gleaming with her blood, I swallowed her heart.
INSTANT NOODLES 