There’s the soft pad pad of bare feet on carpet. And then toes. Tiny, tasty little toes. For the few brief seconds they remain in my field of vision, they’re all I can focus on, all I can think about. I am going insane with hunger. The toes disappear, and the springs above me creak, the ceiling bulging down toward me. I lick my lips. There’s a rustling of sheets, the sluff sluff of a young head hitting a down pillow. The time is soon, but I must abide my growing hunger a few moments longer.
Here comes the heavy, painful thud thud of boots. The carpet scarcely whispers in protest, but my temples throb, my stomach growls, and I wear a jacket of gooseflesh. I grit my razor fangs in agony as the tall one begins to speak in its booming, boisterous voice. The small one above me replies with soft, sweet poetry. There is fear there. I smell it all around me. I revel in it, bathe in it, allow it to distract me as the tall one speaks once more–wait.
What is this? The smell is fading. The maddening pounding of boots resumes, hammering my skull three times, each strike harder and more painful than the last. Even worse is the new smell I detect. That damned smell of concern and love. It wears on my already-frayed nerves, and I find myself panicking. My stomach transforms itself from an endless cavern to a mere knot in an instant. I see a knee touch the floor ahead of me as fingers, thick as tree trunks, grip the curtain I hide behind. Rays of light pierce me to my core. My eyes burn. My flesh turns to ash. I will not survive.
The last thing I see is that big, stupid face–I watch hollow eyes scan my home without a trace of suspicion as I fall apart before them. I think to myself: I am so hungry. So very hungry. And then, nothing.