Sometimes, a story is short.
And sometimes it’s micro.
And sometimes it’s called:
Revenge, Served Warm
The fire starts with her eyes, and travels along her face. Eating, always eating. Crinkling, the paper folds. Crackling, the paper burns. Smoke covers the picture, and the edges come together, and the air tastes acrid. Finally, he drops the remains. It spirals down towards the table’s edge, still being devoured. Nothing touches the ground, and it spills into the air.
His hand goes into the bowl of water, and a blackness spreads throughout the liquid. A splash, and his fingers emerge clean. But the ash is not gone. It’s in his eyes now, swirling like the water, pooling through his retinas and his veins. He blinks with deadened eyes.
“Is it done?” he asks, staring into the void. The man across the table remains quiet, the tattoos around his face dancing. He pulls the bowl towards him, and lays his wrist inside the opaque pool. It clears.
“Yes. The task is complete.”
“Good, you can see yourself out,” he says, waving his arm towards the door.
“As you wish,” the tattooed man says, before walking out of the room and disappearing. The bowl shatters.
Without another word, the man walks towards his room, hands feeling for a path, and lays down on his bed. He finds the lingerie still mimicking a body, and flings it across the room, laughing as her ashes spill.
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