A Little Tradition, Part Four

He stares down at his cards, then over to hers. She sits and smiles back. He counts the points again, running the numbers through his thick mind. He definately won. The room is very quiet.

Eventually she scoots her chair away from the table and walks over to the fridge. She pulls out a silver tray with an array of tiny jars.

"I have some mustards here, if you'd like them," she lays the tray on the table. She folds her hands against her waist. She doesn't exactly know how this sort of thing normally plays out. The beast places his cards on the table. He looks around the room in a daze.

A thought leaps to her mind, "Perhaps you want to take some home for later," She shuffles over to a cupboard.

"Here we go," she pulls out a small stack of plastic tubs with colorful lids. "If you want you could save some..."

He lunges from the table, cupping her skull in one palm and dashing it against the counter top. A single sickening crack from her neck and her body falls limp. His huge, corded arms twist and wrench the corpse. He tears her wrinkled, feeble arms from the socket. He flings it across the room. He tears the spotted, cotton dress from her skin and leaves it in a heap.

Her flesh is dry and stringey. He gnaws on one of her legs. He doesn't really chew or swallow, just biting over and over. The tang of her blood fills his mouth. He spits her out onto the floor.

Screaming, incoherent, he smashes his fists on the table. He spills the gruel on the floor. He throws the teapot against the wall. He tears at the walls and breaks all the windows. He tears up each of her stupid playing cards. He wrenches the door off the hinges and leaves it on the front step.

He walks out the door and down the street. Maybe somewhere else in the world there is another deep dark forest with a cave he can fill with bones. Maybe he'll never find it. Maybe the National Guard will surround him tanks and shoot him. Maybe he can die after all.

Either way, who the fuck cares.