Daikaijuzine

He sees her now – hair ribbons in the breeze, silk dress swaying about her naked ankles. Her back is to him, and he knows she can’t perceive him following her every step, tracing her exact path. His footfalls overlap her sandy footprints as she strolls the moonlit beach.

Why always here?

Beneath the stars, when the moon is ripe, and the ocean perfectly flat.

Why always now?

When he thinks it’s over. There she is again, as he knows she will be. The heart of his unending world.

Stars wink high above them, and the sea breathes deep. James feels feeble, and his flesh prickles. Sherry is ahead of him, rocking her hips, and with every motion she makes his hatred grows. A dark pit springs up inside him, and he feels its tendrils spread through him.

Sherry.

How he hates her.

Hates what she’s done.

Hates what she is.

She is poison, and yet he goes to drink again. Following, following, following. Trapped by that invisible tether, dragged on a silent, endless march, pulled towards her, closer, closer. She walks on oblivious.

He’s within an arm’s reach now. He tries to slow his progress, to delay the inescapable, but still he treads towards her. She doesn’t know. It’s not too late. He’d scream out if only he could.

She turns to him, her face whiter than the moon above them, her eyes hollow and black without life.

“James,” she whispers, her voice deprived of any surprise.

He shivers and hates her more.

Her arms stretch and her hands entwine him, and he wishes to scream at her, but cannot.

“It’s been too long,” she says.

James wants to tell her, not long enough. He is tense in her hold, shaking and trembling. Hate wells up inside stronger, more bitter than before. His fists clench and he ponders how much he’d love to throttle her, then spit in her face with the hope his saliva will sparkle in the moon’s light, finally adding a twinkle to those cesspool eyes of hers.

She’s biting him, her teeth sliding over her soft, silk lips, sinking deep into his uncovered shoulder – closing, closing, then ripping, shredding, and James can only stand frozen in her grasp as another chunk of him is stolen.

He doesn’t bleed. Hasn’t done for years. The best of his meat is gone, but small, ragged clumps remain clinging fugitively to his bones.

Sherry chews with a smile. She swipes a finger through his exposed gristle, and sucks the juice from her nail.

“I can never get enough of you,” she says.

Then she turns and walks away – hair ribbons sweeping, silk dress rippling – and James hates her more than ever. Her silhouette becomes a blot against the moonlight and he starts to trail her, his footfalls overlapping hers.