by Francesca Leung
It’s almost the end of the week, and her cupboards are bare.  Half-rotting scraps of meat lie forgotten in the darkest corners of her kitchen, but she doesn’t appear to notice the smell, or at least it doesn’t bother her.  One might speculate that she does it on purpose, to keep the rats around; certainly, there are plenty of them in her house.

In her kitchen, the floor is hardwood, and stained black.  She sits on a stool at the table, ankles crossed, just the tips of her toes on the floor, and reads an old newspaper, already dog-eared and stained brown and black with unknown liquids.  Daintily she raises an index finger to her lips, moistening it with the tip of her tongue, and turns the page.  A headline catches her eye, near the bottom, in a smallish font—“Have you seen these children?”, and the article describes all the children who have disappeared from the town, where and when they went missing, and a number to call if you have any information that might help the authorities.

She considers calling in (their skulls hang on her walls like trophies, after all), but she doesn’t have a telephone.
Francesca Leung enjoys reading webcomics, is a fan of Queen, and finds knitting to be rather therapeutic.

© 2008, Francesca Leung