Birthday Presence

Prologue

It

They taste so much better when they put up a fight, these, humans.

Sure, they’re scrumptious morsels in most heightened states.

But after centuries of developing my palate, various emotions provide differences in flavor over time.

Overjoyed brings a dash of sweetness. Frustration, a hint of spice.

Anxiety is pretty good, but if you overdo it, the whole thing goes bitter.

But nothing tenderizes and seasons those skin suits like fear.

For centuries, I’ve prepared my victims with a tried-and-true recipe.

I find them young, seven or eight, and set roots while they sleep.

They don’t understand what they’re seeing at that age, only that it scares them.

Then, I slowly turn up the heat and let them simmer in fright for two decades.

When they hit their mark, a year shy of my preferred peak, all bets are off.

I get close enough to ensure they feel my presence.

The stench of my decaying flesh. The chill of my frigid breath. The glow of my searing eyes.

With this one, this woman, I’ve started exploring a new contender for top flavor—euphoria.

It’s different, but no less delicious. But the biggest selling point has been the willingness to comply.

Though fear is salty and succulent, the prey spends unnecessary energy in the hopes of purging what ails them.

Not with euphoria. They love it. They crave it.

They unquestionably submit to it. Its salinity is like that of fear, but less adhesive.

My current victim-to-be loves her boyfriend’s tongue. She yearns for him to pin her to a wall and drop to his knees. To spread her open wide with his fingers. To slurp her pearl like it’s his last meal.

Even when I’m not working her like the ignorant puppet she is, I watch from the shadows as she daydreams with a lust-filled gaze.

Little does she know, her fantasies will never come true.

Not with him. He isn’t real. Not anymore.

Now, he’s just another sack in the meat closet.

I've been stalking her for two decades now.

Learning her routines. Her desires. Soon, she will be mine.

Our timing couldn’t be better, either. Because as our time together approaches its crescendo, I’m ready to move to the back ten with her successor.

On to the next one.