Worms

It was so tiny, resting in my sweaty palms. It squirmed in my grasp like a tiny worm and drooled like an infant. Then, it began to lose its warmth. Just a little hint to you: Children's fingers don't stay warm forever.

In the corner was the child whose finger I chopped off. She was crying, rocking back and forth, clutching her hand that was soaked in blood. She was scared. She looked up at me. The fear was momentary. She smiled at me and held up her hand. Her pinky was but a nasty stub.

"More, please!" She croaked. I could tell she was still in pain. Tears flowed down her cheeks but I could not turn away. I pulled out my giant shears that hung from my back pocket and snipped. Plop. Her index finger dropped to the ground, followed by a crimson cascade. The girl whimpered softly and I tilted my head. I realized that she was giggling. Her soft eyes beckoned me as she lifted her bloodied hand once more. I snipped and snipped and snipped until all her fingers were off. The girl was laying on the ground, smeared in her blood. Smiling.

"I still have another haaaand." She yelled at me this time, practically grinning to both ears. It was my turn to be scared. The way she laughed after I backed away scared me more. The way she starting wailing when she followed me upstairs from the basement and onto the asphalt road scared me the most. Pale moonlight shined on us both. The girl's little teeth glistened in that wide smile of hers as she lifted her other hand that was full of short fingers. She was tracing circles along the road with her stub for a hand. So I walked closer. I kneeled down and got so close to the girl, that I felt her breathing down my throat. And I snipped. But this time, her head went tumbling. It tumbled down the road, leaving a trail of blood. But still, that smug smile of hers with her tiny teeth and those big eyes was chiseled into my mind like how a sculptor chisels marble. And in my basement were her five little fingers that looked like squirming pale worms, drooling on the floorboards beneath my living room. And on the road was the girl's corpse, left to rot and to be forgotten until her head comes tumbling back and her worm-like fingers come squirming to reconstruct the girl into her old lively self. Hopefully, she wouldn't end up in my basement once again so I could snip and snip until her blood floods the streets and swallows the world whole in a river of the little girl's blood.