Genius Loci
By: Avery Hunter
The earth speaks to me; the wind whispers; the leaves rustle soft warnings. I can smell her, taste her on the breeze; she’s close.
And I’m hungry.
She walks towards my resting place, slowly. There’s a dance in her tiny steps, and a tuneless hum on her lips, as she turns a flower by its stalk. The bluebell’s color reflects on her cheek—skin so tender and young—in the sunlight that drizzles through the leaves high above us.
A step closer, and then I rise from the undergrowth. Though my blind eyes search out in darkness, my grasping hands tangle themselves in blonde locks. Her screams echo among the memories of a thousand feeds before her.
The meal is small—little more than a snack—but the kill score etches on my face; another scar.
And then I sleep. Until dinnertime.
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