Cutie Pie

I tread silently along the roof edge. The innocents below are unaware, as always, of my presence. They are so care-free, so oblivious that a creature like me could exist. They are my playthings.

A door bursts open in the alleyway below. A group of revellers staggers out, laughing. Pounding music and harsh light fill the alley before the door slams closed.

I watch them curiously. How easy they would be to take. But alas, they do not interest me. This night, I am searching for a particular victim.

My stomach grumbles. The Great Hunger is building. I hate to admit it, but I am desperate for a feed. I cannot wait for my next slave. She must be found soon.

In my quiet longing, I fight the urge to weep.

Crossing the street below is a mother and her two children. All clothed in bright colours that offend my eyes. The dress sense of some of these people boggle me. How I longed for black capes to come back in fashion so that I would not appear so out of place if I were to be seen among them.

Children. How helpless, naïve and pathetic they are. I admit that I have thought about having children of my own one day. To make my own slaves, in a different kind of way. The thought always amuses me.

Humans seem to enjoy making their own people. Maybe I would give it a try someday.

There. Exiting a liquor store across an empty parking lot. A young lady in a form-fitting top and short skirt leaves the store, chiming the bells above the door. For whom the bell tolls, I think drolly.

This young lady seems particularly pleasant. Wholesome. I hate her. She will make a suitable slave.

I leap to the next building, my cape flapping behind me, and close in on her.

Her soft singing fills the quiet night air. I would be sure to knock that habit from her. With a firm hand if need be. All other slaves have fallen into place beneath me.

She would be no different.

I wait for her to enter an alleyway, then I drop down ahead of her and wait.

She pauses when she sees me. Her eyes widen in shock and curiosity. I put on my show, and start crying for her. No woman has ever been able to resist.

She picks me up and tries to soothe me. She is pathetic. As expected, she takes me home.

The next day I am dressed in a frilly pink outfit and a floral bonnet.

I have made a huge mistake.

This woman is clearly insane! Even after I bit her and turned her into one of my own, she has relentlessly cooed over me. And has a penchant for dressing me up like some doll. Like a baby.

She mocks my small stature, and how I resemble many of her collected stuffed playthings.

“Who's a little cutie pie?!” She demands sweetly.

I look at myself in the mirror—at the flowery dress, powdery make-up, and pink bonnet—and sigh deeply.

Curse my miniscule size.