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Most people give her a single eye. This is within the rules, so she accepts, with a quiet warning. They nod, not understanding. Others try to be clever, and give her an appendix, or a spleen, or even hair. These she does not bother to warn. They will return soon enough, she knows, offering a hand, or a foot, or even a leg.
The more interesting ones start by offering a hand, or a foot, or a leg, or even a kidney. These she questions carefully, before accepting their offerings. It is only fair, after all.
And they will—probably—never return.
A few—a very few—offer everything.
These she invites into her home.
Not to befriend them, precisely, or even welcome them. No. To know them. She offers them fine tea and coffee, exquisite wines, elaborate and delightful meals. She plays music for them, card games with them. She invites them for long walks beneath the nearby trees, short boat rides on the nearby lake.
And she talks to them. They do understand—truly understand—that she does not, cannot, promise them anything? Anything at all? That she has taken everything before this, and given nothing in return, and can always do so again?
They understand, they tell her. Some even have a story or two to tell her, about the ones who only gave her a single eye, and what those people received in return. They know. They know.
And yet they are still giving her everything.
It is all extraordinarily hard work.
And so with these, these few who offer her everything, she starts with the best, the very best, sinking her teeth into their spinal cords to draw out that sweet, sweet fluid, before sinking her claws into their rib cages to pull out tiny morsels of their hearts and lungs, pausing now and then to feed them a bite of bread or fruit, or give them just a swallow or two of water or wine. She does not want them to die too quickly, after all. She deserves every piece, every taste, every delight, she tells herself, for all she has done for them, is doing for them, will do for them.
And oh, their screams are so, so delicious.
Author’s note:
The first sentence, “Most people give her a single eye,” slid into my head without much warning, as sentences sometimes do, so I typed it into a nice white screen, looked at it, and thought, ok, but what do some people give her? Because that’s often the question, isn’t it? Not what most people do, but what some people do. At least, the more interesting question. So I had to type more words to find out.
