FaceFic

She wasn’t often noticed, but the scarring made her shy. Feeling profound emptiness, she stared at the house she had once lived in. It loomed, barren – lost in time – as though nothing had changed since she left. She steeled herself and approached the neighbour, “Why’s the place empty?” Unaware, the old man gazed vaguely at the house, mumbling to himself “Terrible murder. Poor girl tortured so long. All those scars.”

The blackouts always strike him when it’s least convenient. At family parties, during dinner with friends, and once at a child’s birthday party. Any questions he asks are met with silence. It makes him wonder what actually happens. What does he do that no-one wants to discuss it later. Is it too embarrassing? or Illegal? Evil? He woke in a pool of blood yesterday, full moon shining above — smiling its mocking smile.

The swarms began. At first it was just a couple of small beings doing their thing in obscurity. Then they continued. Before long millions of busy little things were working hurriedly all over the world. Nobody noticed at first, they were unimpressive looking creatures blending into their surrounding. By the time there was some indication something was going wrong there just wasn’t enough time to work it out. The End.

“Her name was Lola she was a showgirl” said the coroner to the corpse “Just my little joke.” He resets the Dictaphone. “The victim, a dancer; name: Lola Montez; age: 23. Cause of death, laceration of the carotid artery, shrapnel it seems,” he notes, obscuring the punctures with a skilfully flawed incision. He didn’t feed often, which was just as well. Inventing new causes of severe blood loss was becoming so tedious.

He turns. A look of pure horror crosses his face as his brain struggles to interpret the scene before him. “Blood” says his brain, describing the scene before him, “Lots of blood…”. A muffled sound vies for his attention. A phone? Yes. Over there… with that round object. He picks up the phone which has stopped ringing. The round object rolls toward him. As he gazes on his own severed head, blackness swallows him.

Layla sat, contemplating her toast and the crumbs that fell onto her cluttered table. She tried not to think of Dave, but he kept crowding her mind uninvited. She stood and shut the curtains, pretending she was alone, pretending they did not see it all. Above her the shoppers watched on, wondering. Why was Dave’s body spreadeagled in the kitchen? Would Layla leave now? She left her toast, and returned to her cold bed.