Free Disenchanted by A.R. Miller

many bruises. My stomach does a flipity–flop as my brain registers the possibility of bits of glass embedded in those cuts.
    All I wanted was some quiet alone time, you know, scented candles, warm bath, glass of wine. Instead, I get something out of a horror flick, minus the screeching music. Calgon, take me away now has a whole new meaning.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
     
    The bathroom looking less like a battlefield, wounds tended to the best of my ability, I shift gears. A little something to help me forget my trip down the stinky marshland road that nearly ended in a watery grave. Ice cream—ice cream fixes every problem, right?—and a movie. I’ll pass on action adventure, my life has enough of that, and romance is a no go on many levels. Maybe a comedy? I know someone, somewhere is laughing at me so if I can’t laugh along I may as well laugh at something else.
    C.C. ambles alongside me into the kitchen. “You need a snack too?” Stupid question, but I still feel the need to ask.
    Grabbing a bag of kitty treats and the special gallon of ice cream—Mel so thoughtfully made for me—I head back to the living room. Who needs a bowl when you’re the only one eating it?
    It’s June and warm, but I still snatch up the afghan my grandmother crocheted and tuck it around myself. One of those comforting things therapists would assume is a crutch and blame on something from my childhood. Like I care. I just need the reassurance right now of something normal.
    C.C. stands territorially over the pile of treats, munching away while I fumble with the lid of my own treat and the remote. Creamy, chocolaty, coffee goodness. If Moocha Java doesn’t make me feel better, I don’t know what will.
    Between bites, I flip on the TV, rotating through the channels. Nothing, nothing, oh gods, something I’ve been trying to avoid. The anchorwoman lays out the deeds of our favorite psychopath in vivid Technicolor. I force myself to touch the channel button and fail, hitting the volume instead.
    “The collection count rises, cascading fear throughout the Des Moines area. They are withholding the name of the latest victim along with details of the trophy taken. Both local officials and the NTF are working around the clock to put a stop to this grisly compilation. Channel 8 sources report an object found at the scene could lead to a major breakthrough. Stay tuned for updates.”
    Gods, they’re calling the body parts trophies now. I hit the channel up button and stab my spoon into the bucket. My treat tastes more like a trick. Even that’s ruined.
    There must be suspicions of both Un and En involvement for the police and the NTF to both work on the case. A soft breeze teases the shears and I pull the afghan tighter, I need sleep, but I know the only thing found in my bed will be nightmares. Looks like I have a date with the T.V. Maybe someone will be showing 2001 A Space Odyssey . That movie never fails to put me to sleep.
     
    ***
     
    Jenny in her crazy hooker wear replaces the anchorwoman, Var Royd to her right, Alric Brand and his buddy to her left. Her laughter, the exaggerated, maniacal type lampooned in movies, is even more bizarre with her streetwalker appearance. The news desk covered in red cloth—no, blood, my blood—an altar to which my body is tied. Brand’s fangs exposed, red drool running down his pretty face, his friend—looking like a cross between Hollywood’s Wolfman and Anubis—sports some impressive blood–coated claws.
    A star – like object, presumably torn from my ravaged torso, cradled in Jenny’s hands held aloft, then outward, an offering to Royd. Somehow, I know this is the very essence of my Talents, rooted so deeply, my destruction is the only way to remove them.
    The shadowy figure of my childhood friend haunts the edge of the scene. Instead of his usual watching, holds his pale hands out toward me.
    A horrendous yowling drowns out the laughter and stinging pain that shouldn’t