The Trickster

His smile was the first thing I noticed, stretching past where a normal mouth should end and tearing all the way up his face, ending almost at his ears. His teeth, ground to a sharp tip, dripping blood and tinted dark red. His eyes, bloodshot, straining against his skin, as if they could fall out any second. His face, covered in rotting flesh and dried blood, chipping away as he laughs. His hands, covered in who knows what and waving to and fro, like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. And in his left hand, a rubber chicken, wrapped in human skin and squirting blood whenever he squeezes it.

When he speaks, his voice is a mystery, deep yet high pitched, soft yet still ringing in my ears. He speaks of the wondrous journeys he's had with others, how much he's enjoyed their company, how sad he was to see them go. He speaks of the fun we'll have together, his plans for us, how he never wants me to leave, all the while laughing hysterically.

He sits in the corner of my room, never sliding closer, waving his arms in that hypnotizing back and forth sway, laughing nonstop, stretching his mouth farther and farther up his nightmarish face. He claims to mean no harm, but his eyes say different words.

He hasn't laughed in a day. He hasn't said anything, hasn't coughed, nor giggled, nor even taken a breath of air. I had been trapped by him for two days, and hadn't eaten or drunken a thing. My mouth was dry, by stomach was hollow, and my head was light. He seemed to notice this, and on the third day, opened his mouth again. I was not prepared to hear his scratchy voice again, and winced when he spoke. A single word. Drink. He thrust his rubber chicken at me, and I backed into the wall, watching the head of the chicken bob around, watching it's lifeless eyes that seemed to track me. I told him to go to hell. He thrust it again, harder, spraying blood drops over my face. Overpowered by hunger and thirst, I licked a drop up. Then another. Then all of it. I grabbed the chicken, that lifeless, flopping, rubber chicken, placed my parched lips against its human skin wrapping, and drank its blood. It never seemed to stop, and after a full minute of drinking was I finally able to pull myself away.

The next day, I drank again. And the day after that, and again and again I drank from his chicken. If I refused to drink,  he pinned me to the wall, moving from his spot on the ground, forcing the blood down my throat. After five days of nourishment off of that chicken, my body came to its senses and vomited. And oh how I vomited, it seemed to never stop. It was red, blood red, and wouldn’t stop coming, and all the while he was laughing. Then there was a large thump, and something about the size of my fist came up. He grabbed it, and only then I realized: I had vomited up my heart.

I heard him say one last thing before collapsing lifeless on the ground. “If they picture me just right, I can play with them too.”