And the awoke in her rickety rocking chair. Her face a thousand years old if a day, with hair balding at her crown yet still long past her non-existent asexual breasts. Did she once feed from them? Of course not. For this wench only sapped life from all she touched. Feeding on vitality, warmth and innocence, draining the pleasures of the soul from her host. Her skin like rice paper, too thin to ferry blood, leaving her grey, powdered and rotten. Instead of a mouth, resides a cavernous hole. Her lips eroding into a parched terrain of ravines that lead to a bottomless pit. In fact she is hardly Woman. She is hardly alive but she refuses to expire.
She attempts to stand, but her twig like bones cannot carry the decaying skin around her skeleton. Her inability to move is the only solace I have in this room, for I know she cannot stand. She cannot rise and infect me today. Neither alive nor dead, breathing in the dust of this decaying wooden shack filled with spores of her evaporating skin, she will lie in wait for eternity.
She will cling onto this undignified existence until she inevitably wins my soul, and we both know she eventually will. Now she is vulnerable, do I kill her in this instance? I know I could as I tower over her and look into her blackened pinhole eyes, like pressing a painful bruise just to see how it feels.
I also know I could turn and walk out of this hell filled place should I choose, but instead I stand to study the ruin that will be my murderer. Either way, knowing that today I will walk free does not leave me victorious. This room evokes a fear as strong as the pain she causes when her gnarled knuckle extends and touches my skin, and this is a thought that haunts me every day.