This happens a lot. This happens more times than you might imagine.
"Excuse me, miss?" is how it starts. Or mister, sometimes. But not this time.
"Yes?" She's hooked. There's something about him that she finds intoxicating. I don't know if it's his eyes. They all have these intense eyes. Or it might be his lips. I've seen people stare at them before. I've even heard it might just be some sort of pheromone. I don't know about that. All I do know is that I'm immune to it which is why I'm here. And I know she's a goner.
"Can you form a teapot?"
How many times have I heard this now? I've lost count. It just sounds so innocent. Of course she can form a teapot. Everyone can form a teapot. We're all taught it at school but have you ever thought why? Who even uses a teapot any longer? And this knowledge, this pointless knowledge will be the death of her.
"Sure," she says, hesitantly, and then with more conviction, "here's the handle." She places her hand on her hip. The two of them are close now and it's difficult to tell who's moved towards whom. "And here's the spout."
She's lost to the world now. As she's admiring the crook in her arm and her twisted hand he's leant in, dislocated his jaw, extended his teeth, and clasped her to him. Frozen shock, stifled pain, a shudder, a stiffening, and then it's all over.
So much horror. There's a taste of hot metal on your tongue. You never get used to the tangibility of the blood in the air.
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