My
claws tore into the demon boy’s flesh, making him scream out as a sharp edge
poked through to his liver. A liver was all I wanted; just a small, simple,
young liver for Saturday’s ceremony. I could sell it on the black market afterward
if it wasn't used; after all, everyone is in need of a liver.
The
boy screamed again, this time in horror, as he felt his liver grow back and his
skin close up. Of course, it wouldn't really be his, this new liver; it was
just there to pretend to be a liver until his demon gene was activated. It wasn't like the boy would actually miss his liver; no, the loss of a liver is
not something that makes you lie awake and cry at night. At least not this
one––not when something new and far more beautiful is growing inside, taking its
place.
Saturday
came soon––the sun rising up over the hilltops, bleeding red light into the
valley. The liver sat in a glass jar on the ground, ready to be drunk at any
second. The first drop of the liver was always the best—it tasted sweet, like toenails
and human brains with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Crushed pineapple was added to
the last bite, giving it a precious taste of death.
The
celebration was nice––the smell of fresh blood and the screams from sacrifices mixing
together in a wonderful harmony. After the end of the day, when all the guests
had gone and all the livers had been drunk, there was one liver left. I picked
it up, watching the starlight dance around it inside the glass jar, and headed
to the black market.
It
was crowded, slimy, and smelled of intestines and dog food. The floor stuck to
your feet, and the sounds of prices being set and objects being bought hung in
the air. I stood where I’d set up my spot a long time ago. A motley crowd
surrounded me, offering to trade with teeth, eyes, and a goat. I held the liver
out to a blonde lady I’d seen at the market a time or two before, and asked her
why she wanted it.
“I
want something to decorate the house with. It’s looking a bit . . . plain, trust me, this would be perfect” she
said, giving me the leash to the goat and proudly disappearing with the liver.
Soon after, I led the goat into my backyard, and into its very own house. I
fell asleep on the bed, hugging the goat because I knew, the second I had set
eyes on the goat, that I loved it more than drinking liver.
The
counter in the kitchen of Paris Hilton's house held a liver. A pretty, young
liver from a small demon boy. Paris smiled at it and placed it on the mantle
over the fireplace, next to the monkey skull and the zebra fish. Her decorating
for the day was done.
