ugly george
This is a while ago.
You had crossed paths with him a couple of times before in this midnight Asda Local. He wore a long coat, scarf in all weather, and a brimmed hat. A man with a hunch or a hump, whose left leg dragged a little with each step. It was basically impossible to make out much more than his eyes, and he never made eye contact.
His basket was conscientiously packed according to the food pyramid. Your own basket was a little more prosaic: Coke, lemonade, and a clear intent to purchase bourbon from behind the counter.
The cashier looked a little uncomfortable. She seemed hesitant to take money that the man offered. Without missing a beat he placed the notes on the countertop and scraped up his change when it was placed back there.
Both you and she watched him shuffle his way to the door.
“No, I feel sorry for him, but like, what if it’s contagious?”
Your lips tightened in mild disgust, but not for the gentleman who had just departed. Without looking at the cashier you abandoned your soft drinks and walked lightly towards the exit.
“Hey, you change your mind?”
“I’ll see you again later,” you promised, distractedly.
It was past 2am so the streets were quiet. This man was not difficult to stalk. The hard part was going slow enough.
He stopped once or twice to catch his breath. In the gap between two street lights you decided to close the distance.
“Hi,” you said, clear and forthright.
He looked up, startled and a little afraid to be addressed. His shopping bags, one in each hand, rustled as he tightened his grip, fearing a mugging attempt. No answer.
“You heard her, didn’t you. In the shop.”
He looked away from you, down the street, like he wanted only to be away. You didn’t give him the space.
“I’ll have a word with her later. What she said isn’t right.”
“What do you want?” he asked. His voice was curiously low and booming. Now, it sounded sullen.
“To get to know you a little.” You smiled crookedly. “You’re the only other person who shops when I do.”
He didn’t have an answer to that but was at least looking at you.
“Do you have a problem with me talking with you?”
“Pretty girls don’t talk to me.” The line was delivered with no bitterness, just flat factuality. Between hat and scarf you saw the shine where his eyes caught the distant streetlight.
“You think I’m pretty?” You gave him a winning smile, then felt a little transparent when his eyes narrowed. You let the false brightness fall away. In your accustomed voice you continued. “I bet not many do talk with you. And those who do are too polite. I don’t want to be one of those people. Sorry.”
He swayed a little as he stood in thought. You felt a little like you were being weighed up.
“So what do you want?”
A moment passed as you both stared into one another’s eyes. You ended it by inhaling deeply. “I want you.”
Whatever he thought you were going to say, that was not it.
“You don’t know me.”
“I don’t have to know you. But I want to, a little. Take off your hat and scarf.”
He rocked in place, physically shaken by the command. “No—”
You stepped closer and reached out for his hand. He dropped the carrier bag and tried to withdraw but you claimed it firmly and just held it.
It was painfully sad to watch this simple act melt his defences. The other bag also dropped to the ground. His uneven shoulders slumped, and his head bowed. You felt his hand squeeze yours, and again, like he was testing that it was still there.
“What’s your name?” you asked.
“George.”
“Your hands are soft, George. You take care of yourself. I can tell.”
He stared at you. This far off the edge of his experience, he had no script. You weren’t mocking, attacking or pitying. So he didn’t resist as you raised his hand for inspection
“You have beautiful hands, George.”
Slowly, his free hand went to the brim of his hat, then unwound the scarf.
You have seen visions of hell. It took less than no effort to remain unaffected by his features. The left side of his face had turned to stone. That eye was shaded even now by a brow that jutted out and distorted the skull. Thin black hair had been teased across the mostly bald expanse. The plating continued down his cheek and stiffened the corner of his mouth.
Similar disfigurations must have continued down his whole body, you imagined. The hump, the lameness and the excessive height all pointed to something congenital. But when he spoke he spoke clearly. You thought back to the carefully planned shopping.
“Do you still want me?”
“Yes,” was the immediate answer. Your thumb drew a circle in his sensitive palm. You felt him shiver. “Will you be mine?”
Suspicion vied with hope in his symmetric eyes. You did not know what he hoped for. “I do not know you.”
“My name is Raven.” You turned the hand upward, like a palm-reader. “I’m perhaps as rare as you. I claim people. All kinds of people.”
He didn’t question the word claim. You heard him sigh heavily. “And you want to claim me?”
“I have claimed you. You’re mine, now. You were as soon as you gave me your hand.”
His fingers twitched, but he did not withdraw. You smiled at him, a genuine smile, this time, and stepped closer.
“Have you ever belonged to someone before? No? It can hurt. It will hurt, I won’t lie. But I will promise you this, George.” You lifted his hand to your lips and kissed the pulse point. “You will never, ever be lonely again.”
When you bit, skewering the artery, he moaned akin to despair but held steady. The taste of him as he poured into your mouth was mineral-heavy, but not unlike the blood of any mortal. Your mouth watered as you drank. He took care of himself and so he was delicious.
The thought crossed your mind, irreverent: it’s what’s on the inside that counts.
Without consciously making the decision you closed the wound in his wrist and reached an arm around his right shoulder. He tried to step away but moved slowly, like a man dreaming. You did not hurry when closing your mouth to his throat.
You kissed him there, first, before lancing his carotid. It wasn’t clear which affected him more. You were there to catch his weight and bear him to the ground, even as your tongue and throat worked quickly to channel the geyser of blood safely into your tummy.
At the edge of unconsciousness he croaked with an attempt to speak. You halted your feed. “Mmh?”
“Am I…” He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to make them focus. “Am I… okay?”
“Better than okay,” you say, kissing little bloody stains up and down his now-waxy neck. “You are delicious. You’re going to make me feel fat and happy and content.”
“Spare the… the girl. She doesn’t know better.”
You smiled sadly and stroked his hair. “I’m going to eat her too, George. I claim all kinds of people. The ugly as well as the beautiful.”
It was clear which category you believed he fell into.
“Goodbye, George. It was a pleasure getting to know you.”
His jaw worked and he tried to speak but you took away his voice with a luxuriously slow bite. His heart gave out within moments but you persevered, pulling pints more out of him with brute suction. Your jaw ached but your tummy felt tight and hot with stolen blood. You let him topple amongst his shopping and explored your round new potbelly. A sudden, sharp belch called out the start of digestion, and a blush came to your cheeks.
Back then, you still always excused yourself, even if the only witness was the ghost curling up within your stomach.
You left him with a strange mix of lightness and melancholy. No one would question the spontaneous death of this gentle, deformed man.
As for the cashier, you didn’t intend to leave a body to be found at all.