Disease and famine riddle this town, covering the traces of my existence. The humans here prepare of another crippling winter. Their bellies will cry with hunger while mine laps in the luxury of an ample supply of disposal morsels. Blonde hair draped over my leg reminds me of the plethora of opportunities I have to satisfy my inner demon.
I run my fingers through her locks, breaking up the dried masses of crimson. She was someone’s mother, someone’s wife, someone’s mistress, but she didn’t fight it when she became my meal. None of them did. The air is growing colder each passing day as winter rolls toward us. But even the stillness that the shorter days of winter brings does not compare to the peace of being surrounded by silent bodies.
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