They didn’t expect us for dinner, but they let us in.
Why are they so upset?
We both have our rules, and needs.
I can smell the tangy iron from beside this awful
painting of a dead man. Are they calling its name?
What are our names?
I forgot.
They keep calling it.
Why are they so upset?
They didn’t have to let us in.
They scramble towards the walls and windows.
We lock them.
Their voices are hoarse and fingernails raw, as we drag
them back onto the carpet. We break their legs and arms,
gently.
Preventing anything from escaping their tender veins.
The tall One is being calm now. Good. We feed from him first.
Now the other One is crying, they’re so strange sometimes.
The tall One is done, and the shorter One is talking to me now.
It shows me a picture, two little Ones, and two tall Ones.
I like them better when they don’t talk,
so we ate from that one too.
They are leaking, it would be best to finish.
We look at the picture again.
“What are our names?”
“Marcus and David” it says, leaking.
We finish.