Eaten

Her naked eyelashes were the color of her grandmother's mink. They became black when she wet them with tears. The tears dried on her face and then her tight skin cracked when she moved her mouth. Parted her lips.

The gap between her front teeth was askance from the tubercle of her upper lip. An odd thing.

She missed him already and couldn't breathe, although she could hear him breathing in the other room. She couldn't breathe and her little organs were shutting down inside her little body. She could feel them, all achy and shuddering. And her mind closing in on itself until it was just a pinprick.

And no one would find her there, not him, and she would be eaten by cats. Cats who would start with the pads of her fingertips and toes. Perhaps they had begun to naw already.

Tiny shoes in dusty boxes. Old hands with pink fingernails caressing her face. "You should brush your hair one-hundred strokes every night," Emily said.

She breaks down and uncorks the bottle. Naw naw naw.

Emily's refrigerator didn't work, so she used it for storage. Cereal boxes, cookie tins. Her icebox required defrosting. She sat very regally on what appeared to be an uncomfortable chair (ankles crossed) and drew out Southern words languid as the afternoon. Miniature hands clasped loosely and delicately.

And then dead and eaten. Clasping and unclasping (or whatever it is to "wring" one's hands) and biting her lips until they bled.

In the light, her naked lashes shown all auburn and chestnut and tapered golden tips. They were all she had.