Bone-white demons feed on our flesh like vultures, picking and gnawing until our souls are revealed. Juicy red hearts become dessert. The Witch stands to the side and observes. Her hands are folded demurely in front of her and the clench of her fingers seems to say "This is necessary."
If only we had listened, when the Dead Man first came to us.
Her eyes suddenly shift to me; the demons have not yet reached me and I lay in captivity, bound by her will. She doesn't understand why I am not struggling.
This is my own fault.
My eyes remain open.
She leans over me, like a mother watching her child sleep, and smiles, a slowly winding movement that holds only malice. Two lips, red as rose petals, stretch open and a drop of blood escapes her mouth. It slides down her chin.
She looks vulgar and unkempt. Evil doesn't suit the soft curve of her chin or the roundness of her eyes. Her hair is frayed from being nibbled on by spiders.
"And what do you have to say to me?" she says.