by Azzurra Nox
5,407 Words | Original Illustration by Bratcave Studio
Competition: Killer Shorts Season 5 2023, Short Story (Prose) Category, 3rd Place Winner
It all began with a birthday party, and it all ended with eleven little girls dead – except for one survivor – me. I still recall the vivid candy floss pink that spilled from Rose’s mouth when she was set to blow out the candles. It dribbled down the front of her yellow Belle gown and as if on cue, ten little girls followed suit, pink barf everywhere as I watched on in horror as one by one they began to twitch, seize, and then drop to the ground – unresponsive. Tears streamed down my cheeks, the colorful birthday streamers billowing in the wind as I dropped the Disney tumbler filled with apple juice. Rose’s mother reached out for her, grabbed her by the shoulders and called out for help.
“What did you do?” The mother yelled at the nanny who frantically tried to revive one of the girls on the ground. “What did you do?”
The nanny shook her head. She couldn’t understand what the mother was accusing her of. This wasn’t her fault. None of this was her fault. But Rose’s mother didn’t believe her. So when the police showed up and asked her why eleven girls were dead she merely pointed to the nanny and said, “She did it. She killed them all.”
All I could do was agree with Rose’s mother as the CD kept repeating Be Our Guest on a loop, my eyes fixated on the sickeningly pink vomit coated on all those blue lips. The image imprinted in my mind and plague me to this day. This is why I don’t wear chipper colors and dress exclusively in monochromes of black and white. My whole life is a vintage film devoid of color because it’s the only way I can pretend that day didn’t happen. It’s the only way I can feel some semblance of normalcy.
That’s why when I found a hot pink envelope in my student mailbox the other morning I couldn’t help but freeze. I don’t know how long I remained immobile for, but it must’ve been long enough to annoy the guy behind me because he cleared his throat before saying, “Are you getting your mail or not?”
“Um…yes,” I said and quickly grabbed all the mail, including the pink envelope. I stuffed everything into my backpack and tried to forget about it. And forget about it I did, until now. I went to pull out my folder from the backpack and it fell out. The pink looks so aggressive against the white tiles of Professor Grimes’s class. I stare at it in disbelief as Be Our Guest begins to play on a loop in my head – a soundtrack only I can hear. My heart flutters with dread and I can’t stop staring until someone shakes me out of my reverie.
“Celine, are you okay?”
I look up to see my classmate with a worried expression. I don’t remember if his name is Tom or Bill. I’m terrible at remembering names that I never use.
“Y-yeah..” I quickly grab the envelope and shove it between the pages of Macbeth.
“It looked like you zoned out for a bit,” he presses.
“I’m just stressed, you know…mid-terms and everything.”
“Yeah, I get you,” he says with a smile of camaraderie. Luckily Professor Grimes passes by in time to end the conversation by placing the midterm on my desk before he moves on.
While I sit in my Shakespearean Tragedies class, all I can think about is the pink envelope. Who has sent it? It didn’t have postage nor a return address. It simply has my name typed on the envelope, Celine Hardt. I try to disregard my thoughts and try to focus on the midterm in front of me. I bargain with myself. The faster I can complete this midterm, the faster I can rip open the letter.
Luckily, I finish early and when I hand my test in to Professor Grimes he asks, “How’s the thesis coming along?”
“Smoothly,” I lie. Truth is, I have no clue where I’m going with it and I’ve scraped three versions so far. “I’m almost done with a rough draft.”
“Splendid,” he says with smile. He pushes his glasses back up his nose. “Don’t hesitate to email me if you get stumped and need a sounding board. That’s why I’m your mentor.”
“Thank you. Sorry if I must cut this short but I need to get back to my dorm. I haven’t finished packing and I’m leaving to go back home tonight.”
“Ah yes, you’re far from here, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Ohio.” I’m always aware how much of a fish out of water I am as a Mid-Western girl in New York City.
“Well, I don’t want to keep you. Have a safe trip home and I’ll see you after Thanksgiving.”
“Thank you.”
I practically run out of Professor Grimes’s room. I zig-zag in between people on campus and cut across lawns. I don’t even make it into my dorm room before I tear into the letter. Inside is a card of a scene from Alice in Wonderland sitting a table with the Mad Hatter, the Dormer Mouse, and the Mad Hatter. When I open it with a creeping dread, written inside in the most intricate calligraphy; a single phrase.
You’re cordially invited to an unbirthday party.
My hand shakes uncontrollably, as an invisible vise settles around my neck and chokes me.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
And now all I can see is the gaudy pink. It’s all over my dorm floor, tainting my bed, my walls, my whole damn room! I dry-heave and rush towards the bathroom down the hall. Once inside a stall, I fall to my knees, but to my horror even the water in the toilet is tinted Pepto-bismol.
Stop…stop…..STOP!
* * *
Colorful streamers decorated the arched doorway that separated the sunroom from the backyard. I gazed at the large gazebo adorned with flowers and the table overflowing with festive wrapped birthday gifts. I suddenly began to feel embarrassed of the small gift I clutched (a coloring book) wrapped in a plan brown paper bag.
Then I saw all the little girls dressed as Disney princesses and my heart dropped as I eyed my makeshift costume. At home, I was certain that I could pass off for Alice – black headband and blue dress – a pair of black sneakers that my mother had glamed up with glitter – now I felt like a total farce. A cheap travesty of who I was supposed to be. As if on cue – Rose – the birthday girl approached me.
She was wearing a stunning yellow-gold taffeta dress – Belle – her hair half up like the Disney princess.
“What’s that?” She pointed at the sad gift in my hand.
“For you,” I mumbled extending the gift. But instead of accepting my gift, Rose recoiled as though I were a rattlesnake ready to attack.
“Why aren’t you dressed as a princess?” A Cinderella glared at me.
“I-I’m supposed to be Alice.”
“She’s not a princess and that’s not a costume! You’ve worn that dress to school before.” Rose made sure to let me know that I wasn’t fooling anyone.
“Hello honey,” Mrs. Parker, Rose’s mother, approached us. She took the disgraced gift from me. “Thank you for making it to Rose’s birthday party and thank you for the gift.”
I attempted a smile. I had met Mrs. Parker before and she reminded me of an actress. Her crimson hair was perfectly styled and she wore a white blouse – a stark contrast to my own mother whose nails were never painted – her hair perennially up in a messy bun with bags beneath her eyes from her insomnia. Mrs. Parker was beautiful, while my own mom looked more like the before image of a pre-makeoever.
When Mrs. Parker left, the girls simply stared at me with a vehemence that my eight year old head couldn’t understand.
“You’re only here because my mom made me invite you,” Rose told me, again trying to make sure that I knew exactly why I was there that day and it had nothing to do with her.
I didn’t know what to say.
“Let’s play hide and seek. Count to a hundred and then come find us,” Rose said. The girls quickly dispersed. I didn’t know what to do, so I did what I was told to do. I counted to one hundred.
I spent forty-five minutes walking around looking for the girls, but I couldn’t find any of them. Discouraged, I was about to give up when I heard giggles coming from one of the bedrooms. I looked up and saw a pink dress swish by as the door closed. I slowly made my way up the stairs, trying my best to be quiet. Then I opened the bedroom door and quickly realized that I was in Rose’s room. The whole room was an ode to Disney Princesses, in particular Belle. She had a canopy bed with a yellow and brown quilt and a Lumiere lampshade. Plush dolls of Mrs. Potts and Chip filled the bed along with posters of Beauty and the Beast scenes decorating the walls. I was in awe thinking back at the cot I slept in the same room as my mom because we lived in a one bedroom apartment.
Muffled giggles spilled out from the walk-in closet.
“I know you’re in there!” I said, a little too triumphantly.
The giggles only got louder and so I tore open the closet door. Before I had a chance to say “Gotcha!” I was pelted by a handful of water balloons. At first, I didn’t think much of it, I too had played with water balloons in the past, but as the liquid dripped from my face I realized that something was decidedly wrong. A scent of sulfur clung to my wet hair when the giggling girls gathered around me and started chanting, “Piss girl! Piss girl! Piss girl!”
Then I realized with horror that the water balloons weren’t filled with water, but urine.
I burst into tears and ran downstairs, all the way, the girls’ mocking chant followed me. I ran into the kitchen, looking for the phone so that I could call my mom to come pick me up. I couldn’t stay here a second longer, this much I knew.
I ran into Rose’s nanny, Ms. Jenny. She was mixing a scoop of strawberry ice cream, milk, and fresh strawberries into a blender to make home made milkshakes, Rose’s favorite.
“What’s wrong sweetie?” Ms. Jenny gave me a sympathetic look.
“I-I want to call my mom. I-I’m not feeling good,” I said, which was only half a lie since I was feeling rather distressed and humiliated.
“Okay, do you know the number?”
I nodded.
“I’ll go get you the phone then,” she said and walked out of the room. I stared at the juicy fresh strawberries, slit in half and sitting on top of the ice cream and milk. I was certain the concoction Ms. Jenny was making would taste absolutely wonderful, but I was lactose intolerant and wouldn’t be able to drink any of it. I was suddenly gripped by an irate anger. It wasn’t fair that Rose could be so mean and yet have a beautiful home, a beautiful mom, and her own homemade milkshakes. None of it was fair. By now, the scent of urine had gotten worse. More disgustedly pungent, and nauseating.
“I hate her,” I murmured.
I didn’t know then that an hour later all the girls would end up dead, including Rose.
* * *
As each row of flights light up with a flashing CANCELED, the more the reality of having to spend Thanksgiving break at the airport or back in my dorm room alone seems possible. A wave of nausea hits me hard, and I hold unto the wall next to me, propping myself up. This can’t be happening. And yet, I shouldn’t be surprised seeing how hard the snowflakes were hitting once I had gotten out of Professor Grimes’s room earlier in the afternoon.
“Shit!” I say as the screen shows that even my flight is definitely canceled. My hands clench into fists, my tears distort my vision and CLEVELAND becomes a blurry mess before me. I stare out at the window into the snowy night. I see a young man wearing a NYU sweatshirt approach me. He smiles, and it reminds me of a smile I’ve seen before.
“What a bummer, right?” He says as he runs a hand through his short brown hair.
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“Where were you headed?”
“Cleveland – well, at least the airport. I’m from Chargin Falls.”
“No shit?” The young man looks excited. I’m trying to figure out if I’ve seen him around campus or not. But there are so many students at NYU that unless someone is in your friend group you may never see them around.
“I’m from Cleveland,” he says. “I’m thinking of renting a car and drive out there.”
“In this snow?” I say as I look outside again, the snow flurries have gotten worse.
“Beats staying here for the night. Besides, we could both be home by midnight, max one o’clock. You could be sleeping in your bed tonight.”
I stare back out into the night, willing the snow to melt so that I wouldn’t be actually in the position of considering to take up this crazy offer by a stranger. Besides, how can I be certain that he really is a student?
“Thanks, but I think I’m going to wait it out.”
“Really?” He looks genuinely disappointed. Then he extends his hand, “Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Vincent Hanger. I have Shakespearean Tragedies with Professor Grimes with you.”
Now I know why he looked so familiar. Sure, trying to keep track of all the students in class is difficult when there’s over sixty and I don’t really pay much attention to any of them. But somehow this new info allows me to relax.
“How do you feel about the midterm?”
“Oh man, I’m not a literature major so it was brutal for me.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “So, wanna join me for the drive to Ohio?” I want to trust him, but growing up a girl we’re always conditioned to mistrust anyone, especially if that person is a man.
“You’re very kind, Vincent. But I’m afraid that I’m going to wait it out here at the airport.” I say. Although the idea of spending the night in the airport doesn’t make me feel any better either. I think about my bed back at home, the cozy comforter that my grandmother made me when I was a baby, and the photos of my high school friends still pinned to a cork board, untouched. Suddenly, I’m hit by a wave of nostalgia. For the scent of my mom’s home cooked tomato bisque accompanied by the comforting grilled cheese sandwich. My heart aches for the familiar setting and my cat, Waffle, who likes to snuggle against my chin as we both doze off on the couch. I wonder what my mom is doing right now. I should text her, let her know that my flight was canceled, that maybe I won’t make it home until tomorrow night.
“That’s too bad,” he says and looks genuinely hurt. Maybe the thought of driving for hours alone on the eve of Thanksgiving really dampens the festive mood. “Well, I’m going to check on that car rental. I hope you have a good holiday, see you in class.” He turns right and heads towards the counter at the exit. I turn left and walk towards the restroom, pulling my suitcase behind me. The restroom is eerily silent. I walk past all the stalls, pushing the doors open to each one before selecting the one at the end and close the door. The sound of running water fills the room. I perk my ears. That’s strange, I didn’t hear anyone walk in. I try to peek through the door’s hinges but see no one.
The room fills with the scent of strawberries and cream. Someone is humming a familiar tune.
Be Our Guest.
I get woozy, and use the door as a means to support myself. I step out of the stall, and the restroom is empty. But the scent still lingers in the air. I turn the faucet and look down in horror as a hot pink substance falls out resembling ice cream.
My heart gallops up to my throat, constricting the airways. I manage to grab my suitcase and run out of the bathroom.
Relief washes over me when I see that Vincent is still here. He’s about to step out of the door.
“Wait!” I shout, running after him. He stops. “I changed my mind…I’ll join you for the drive.”
“You sure? I don’t mind driving alone.”
“Yes, I – I really want to be home tonight.”
He looks past me for a moment, as though he’s trying to consider my change of heart. Then he looks at me and smiles. “It’s settled then,” and takes the suitcase from me. “Let’s go out. I rented a Prius, let’s see if it really is a superior car.”
I laugh.
* * *
Large snowflakes smack against the windshield. A heated dread fills my stomach, and Vincent takes notice because he turns on the radio. A holiday song fills the car. We both groan.
“It’s not even Thanksgiving yet!”
“I know! Soon they’ll be playing these songs in October,” he laughs with a shake of his head as he presses the dial trying to find a better station. We’ve been driving for the past hour and we’ve got another five to go, but with this weather, things are starting to look a little dicey.
“Do you think it’s getting too snowy?”
Vincent shrugs, “I’ve driven through worse, but I was thinking of getting off the next exit to refuel and we could get coffee or hot cocoa. How does that sound?”
The road ahead of us is dark and devoid of any other vehicles. We’re the only ones brave or stupid enough to be driving in this weather. I try to focus on what he asked me and nod. Hot chocolate does sound comforting right about now.
“So how long have you been at NYU for?” I try to fill the awkward silence.
“I’m a newbie.”
“A transfer?”
“Yeah.”
“So are you an English major too or you’re just taking Grimes’ class as an elective?”
“English major,” he says with a humble pride only a fellow English major would notice.
“It’s funny cause I don’t think I have any other classes with you and I thought you said you weren’t an English major.” I would certainly recall him from other Lit courses since not all of them are so densely populated as Grimes’ classes tend to be.
“I’m actually a PhD student working for Professor Grimes. Not an English major per se, Creative Writing is what I do.”
I nod although I can’t recall a time where I might have seen him in Professor Grimes’ company. And the fact that he lied about having taken the midterm when he clearly didn’t lingers like a foul scent in the car.
“So have you had a chance to meet Grimes’ prized Ophelia?”
“Oh yes,” Vincent quickly answers. “She’s amazing, very beautiful.”
“You do know Ophelia is his pet pig, right?”
Another awkward silence ensues as he drives towards the exit. I begin to wonder if maybe Vincent isn’t really a student at NYU and if he isn’t….why did he lie? Snow flurries continue to descend madly around us, engulfing us in a shroud of white. Then, a familiar voice from my past fills the car.
Lumière speaks the first lines of Be Our Guest and I feel my world go topsy turvy.
This can’t be happening.
* * *
I eyed the milkshakes with a jealousy that only an eight year old could muster. Ms. Jenny gave me a “I’m sorry,” expression as she filled a Tumbler with apple juice to give to me. I knew that I was still reeking from the piss balloons the girls threw at me, and so Ms. Jenny handed me the Tumbler with an outstretched hand. Meanwhile, the strawberry milkshakes smelled wonderful and all I wanted was to be able to take a sip, but I couldn’t. Not when Ms. Jenny was still in the kitchen.
“I need to go get something, I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Ms. Jenny said.
I hated those girls, especially Rose.
Why did she get to have a princess party? I had never celebrated my birthday with friends because we didn’t have the money for those frivolous things. Usually, all my mom did for my birthday was buy me a cupcake from Wal-Mart and we’d eat it at home. I never got a birthday cake, and barely any gifts that weren’t clothes.
I couldn’t stop staring at the milkshake still in the container. Then my eyes noticed another bottle. It was one that I readily recognized. That’s when I decided that if I couldn’t have the strawberry milkshake then those girls shouldn’t either, especially after the way they treated me. I gingerly lifted the white bottle from its place on the lower cupboard and easily uncapped it and poured its content into the milkshake. I quickly found a spoon and stirred the concoction so that the new ingredient wouldn’t be noticeable and then placed the bottle where I had found it.
Ms. Jenny walked in with fresh picked cherries and quickly poured the strawberry milkshakes into beautiful tall glasses, garnishing the tops with whipped cream and cherries.
“Here, you can have one.” She extended a cherry towards me.
I simply shook my head. I couldn’t wait for Rose’s party to be ruined.
* * *
“Are you okay?” Vincent says to me as he parks the car.
I’m suddenly jolted to the present.
“What?”
“You zoned out there for a second.”
“The radio….I thought it was…”
“I know, I’m sorry,” he says apologetically. “Those damn Christmas songs.”
Christmas? Wasn’t it playing that Beauty and the Beast song? I couldn’t have imagined it. But Vincent just said that it wasn’t that. I must be jumping to conclusions. The snowflakes are coming down harder as we get out of the car. I look up into the sky and wish I could be home right now and not in a desolate Gas Station with a stranger.
“Are you going to come in?” Vincent is holding the door open as I stand in the cold night.
“Sure,” I say. The inside of the Gas Station is hot despite the lower temperature outside and reeks of confectioner sugar. I look to my right and then I know why. The clerk is sitting at the cash register eating a Hostess Twinkie.
I walk around the store in a daze, nothing really registering and hoping only that this night will end. That I can stop thinking about Rose and her damn party and also that pink note with the words, You’re cordially invited to an unbirthday party.
“Here, you might need this. You seem cold,” Vincent says handing me a steaming cup of hot cocoa. I readily accept it. Anything to wrap my shaking hands around something sturdy. I take a greedy gulp, burning my tongue and the roof of my mouth in the process. It’s not the best tasting hot chocolate, with a slight chalky aftertaste, but I ignore this and continue to drink because I feel comforted by the heat.
Vincent pays for the gas and beverages. I step back out into the cold night, my feet crunching snow, the sound echoing in the lonely gas station. My vision sways and I grab unto the car to break my fall.
“You okay?” Vincent rushes by my side.
“Yes, only a slight dizzy spell,” I tell him as I hurry towards the passenger door.
My ears feel numb, like I can’t hear anything for a moment, other than the persistent notes of the chorus of Be Our Guest. I stop.
No. This can’t be real.
And yet, I’m back at Rose’s back yard. Girl after girl throwing up the fragrant strawberry milkshake. I stand motionlessly as Mrs. Parker panics. Then she eyes Ms. Jenny and with a shaky accusatory finger she bellows, “What did you do?” Ms. Jenny looks up from her position on the ground where she’s trying to revive a dead girl.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be stuck in this moment again. I want to look away but Mrs. Parker grabs me. “Celine, what did you see? Tell me!”
I can’t speak. I have no words. I don’t know where they’ve gone to. All of my vocabulary is nonexistent. I just want to go back. I want to rewind the day’s events like a VHS tape, and record over the moment where I add the bleach into the milkshakes. I only wanted them to be ill, not dead. But it’s too late and Mrs. Parker is crying hysterically.
I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to break this cycle but all I see is pink on pink on pink and I can’t stop that color from worming its way into my psyche, of slipping into every crevice of my body until I am drowning in a pool of pastel pink. While the color is creeping up around me all I can think is, “Pink is the color of death.”
* * *
The first thing I notice when I wake up is that my mouth is unreasonably dry. I try to swallow but my throat feels like sandpaper. The second thing I notice is that I’m cold. Not simply chilled, but fucking freezing. The third thing I notice is that I can’t see. Or rather, something is concealing my vision.
“Vincent?” I call out.
I try to move but can’t, something is impeding me, keeping me strapped to my seat, except for my arms that feel suspended in the air, much like a puppet on strings.
“Vincent? What’s going on?”
No response.
Then I hear it.
Low at first but as insidious as a snake, the beginning notes of Be Our Guest. A cold sweat breaks loose on my forehead. I’m about to cry out again when a hand unties the blindfold and I watch as the world unfolds before my eyes.
I’m outside. The trees that surround me have snow weighing down on their limbs as more snowflakes descend. I’m seated at a table fit for a fancy tea party. Someone behind me pours me a cup of steaming hot tea from a kettle that looks like Mrs. Potts into a cup that resembles Chip. The table is filled with little cucumber sandwiches and cupcakes. I look down and see that I’m no longer in my clothes but wearing a garish Alice in Wonderland costume that would probably be in the clearance bin at Spirit Halloween. Seated next to me, is a small plush mouse toy, decked out in formal attire. A large box decorated with a big red bow sits across from me.
Then it hits me with the force of a truck crashing right into me.
You’re cordially invited to an unbirthday party.
What the fuck is going on?
I try to move my hands but see that strings have been attached to my elbows, propping them up like a marionette.
“I’m so happy that you could make it. I’ve been waiting for this moment for such a long time,” Vincent says as he walks into my view and sits down in a chair across the table from me. He too has changed into different clothes to reflect this strange moment. He’s wearing a purple version of the Mad Hatter costume as the Disney song continues to play in the background like the soundtrack of my nightmares.
“I-I don’t understand,” I say.
“Remember that day, when you killed those little girls?” He gingerly pours himself a glass of tea. He takes a sip and considers me like a specimen beneath a microscope. Meanwhile, the song continues to play in the background on a loop.
“Excuse me?”
“C’mon don’t feign innocence with me. I know better.”
His words slice me in half. He is the knife and I a hapless fish, gutted on the table. I try to hold his gaze, and say nothing. He responds to my silence with a hearty laughter.
“You thought no one would ever find out, right?” He smiles, takes a bite out of a cucumber sandwich. “What you and that bitch Mrs. Parker didn’t realize when you sent my mother to jail is that you never thought that I’d come looking for you. You blamed an innocent woman! My mother was all I had. Because of you, I was sent to foster care!” He suddenly slams his fist down on the table, knocking over the tea cup. The tea spills over, staining the white tablecloth a dirty brown hue.
My breath rises like smoke above me, lingering.
“Listen, Vincent. I was just a little girl.” I try to reason.
“So were they! So was I! And you ruined all of our lives!”
I bite my tongue so that the tears don’t descend. He’s right. But I didn’t imagine that they would die. I only wanted to hurt them. Make those girls feel the pain and humiliation I had felt. He knocks the lid off of the box and pushes it towards me. A putrid, pungent smell assaults me and I gag.
“Aren’t you going to see what’s inside?”
I shake my head.
“C’mon, don’t be rude. It’s for you.”
“Please…” My voice cracks. But he nudges the box closer. I don’t want to see what’s inside, but by the stench, it can’t be anything good. I slowly lift my chin to take a quick peak.
“Oh god!” I exclaim, jumping back and jerking the rope that keeps my limbs suspended in the air.
I should have known what was in the box before peering in, and despite having an inkling it still unnerves me when I see her head savagely hacked, not fresh, since the eyes have glossed over with a sheen of white and the skin is molted. Not to mention the smell.
Mrs. Parker.
I close my eyes, tears burn their way out. I hear him chuckle. I open my eyes to blink the tears away and see him sit up and walk over to me. He’s carrying a large glass bottle filled with a pink liquid. He shakes it up and forces a funnel into my mouth. I try to struggle against his grip but it’s useless. Loud, desperate cries escape from my mouth but Vincent doesn’t seem to care, he shoves the funnel deeper into my mouth and I gag as he begins to pour the pink drink into my open mouth.
The strawberry flavored concoction burns its way down my throat and I try to scream but can’t. And that damned Disney song is on a constant loop as Vincent stands over me laughing. When he lets go of me, my head drops on the table with a terrible thunk while my arms remain raised in the air. Foam rises up my throat, along with blood. My whole insides feel on fire, like I was fed a hand grenade and now its exploding leaving me maimed. Beyond the woods, I see a dark figure hiding behind a tree. He’s tall, unbelievably so, but what makes me notice him in my death-delirium haze is the tall white ears. Then I smile, despite the tragedy of it all.
Of course the only one missing at this unbirthday party was the March Hare.
I stare, head against the table, as the thick liquid flows through my open mouth staining the tablecloth that damned rosy shade that I so despise. Snowflakes continue their Swan Lake pirouettes, clinging to my lashes. Everything is numb and quiet for a moment, even the music stops.
Then, laughter breaks the silence and the table fills up with eleven little girls decked out as Disney Princesses, their lips blue, and eyes white but smiles as wide and manic as the Cheshire cat.
About the Author
Azzurra’s Coverfly Profile | X | Instagram | Website | IMDb
Azzurra Nox is a Pushcart Prize nominee and Killer Shorts Winner. She was born in Catania, Sicily and has led a nomadic life since birth. Her current works are I Want Candy, Girl That You Fear, and Hush, Don’t Wake the Monster: Stories Inspired by Stephen King.
