We Prick You

"Duke’s what you’d call an older man. I’m what you’d call under-age, only he doesn’t know. He thinks I’m 17."

A cautionary tale about a young runaway and the evils of older men.

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11. Fucking Charlie

Light. And a scream. Thump, thump, thump and the screaming stops. The stickman clambers back through that rectangle of light, back into my life. 

    I’m alive!

    “Eat,” he says. “Eat now or die all over again.”

    “What the fuck?” I croak.

    “You sweet, stupid girl,” he whispers. “Look around you.”

    My eyes adjust to the dark. Broken furniture divides the room, jagged splinters of wood and plastic and glass. Between the shattered tables and bed frames lie broken girls. Some no more than skeletons, others with more meat on their bones. All lie with their mouths open, gasping, gaping.

    “Eat,” he says, lifting my head in his arms, sitting me upright.

    “Eat what?” I ask.

    Stairs lead up to a doorway behind Duke. He stoops and drags something from the foot of the stairs, lets it flop into my lap. A girl, heavy, twisted and still.

    Fucking Charlie.

    “Eat her?” I ask.

    “Quickly,” he says. “While you still have the strength and there’s still some life in her blood.”

    Fucking Charlie. It’s only fucking Charlie. She’s dead anyway. Look at her. Bones sticking out of her like that. She’s not walking out of here. 

    I lean over her. She’s still warm. 

    “I fucking warned you,” I whisper. 

    She moans.

    I bite into her neck. Warm, coppery syrup oozes out of her, down my throat. Better than vodka, better than anything. Life.

    “Good girl,” Duke whispers.

    She moans again, so I smack her head off the floor a couple of times.

    Fucking Charlie.

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