"A Better One" by Joel Austin

A Better One

by Joel Austin

There’s no good way to describe it. How thick the air feels when it begins buzzing, the electrical crackle, a vibration that tickles each hair on Dana’s head. She feels it ripple through her bones. 

Why did that fucking pig have to say that? She knew why. It had been this way her entire life; why would her quiet, book-filled sanctuary be any different?

“Oowee, aren’t you just the cutest little thing?” the man said as he held open the door. Dana gave him a polite smile as she hurried past him. Apparently, that wasn’t good enough for him.

“I could fit you in my pocket,” the man said and grabbed Dana’s bicep. “Wanna be my little pocket pussy?”

The astonished look on Dana’s face must have been what the pig was after; he gave a belly laugh and walked away. Dana rushed into the library and found herself hiding in the always deserted economics section.

She’d received plenty of creepy stares and leers through the years. Emboldened men who see a woman with the figure of a model on the body of a teenager and, like a werewolf facing a full moon, turn into monsters lusting after young flesh. Even still, did they all deserve to die? Something inside of Dana always said, “Yes.”

As the oxygen around her set up like a custard, she braced herself for what came next. Not that she knew exactly, but tomorrow she would wake up in her backyard, covered in blood, and in a few days, another man would be reported missing on the news.

***

The first time it happened, she was absolutely mortified. It had been about six months earlier, the morning after her thirtieth birthday. She celebrated with a single beer at a dive bar on the way home, so she shouldn’t feel as hungover as she did. Why was that bird so goddamned loud? Why was every muscle in her body screaming with tension?

Dana couldn’t open her eyes. Something was holding them shut. Her hands stuck to her cheeks as she tried to wipe away the viscous goo. Grunting, straining, she pulled her hands free and strained her forehead to new heights. Dana’s eyes cracked open, like eggshells connected by tendrils of albumen, strings of red glue pulled at her lashes. Gross, she thought. There’d always been something about sticky stuff on her skin that gave Dana goosebumps. Not knowing what was all over her made the sensation a thousand times worse.

Peeking through the slits in her eyelids, Dana recognized the bench on her back patio. She knew where she was! She beelined for the birdbath sitting in the middle of the backyard. 

Her muscles melted, a sigh of relief passed her lips when the cool liquid touched her face. The tranquil inhalation was followed suddenly by a panicked scream. The water felt nice as it released the sticky mess from her skin, but as her vision was restored, the realization that blood was the only thing covering her naked body forced a series of wails to erupt from her mouth.

Earth's rotation felt like it shifted from horizontal to vertical. Dana would have passed out if it weren’t for the adrenaline that came with the slideshow-style flood of memories.

The dive-bar, the jerk, the classic “I bet it would look huge in your little hands,” her insincere smile and wave so she could have her drink and go home … then … then? She doesn’t remember.

A week later, the news asked for help locating a man that Dana recognized at once when a picture of the same creep appeared on the screen. Shocked. No, electrified by the feeling that came over her. Like a child sneaking a cookie before dinner when no one knows. Giddy. Whatever had taken over her body felt so good. What’s the world less one sicko, anyway? These perverts who fantasized about “wearing her like a glove,” or “seeing the tip bulge in her stomach,” deserved what they got.

She didn’t know anything different though. She developed breasts when she was eleven and from then on had been ogled by classmates, teachers, and worse than anyone—her dad’s friends. They were almost cartoonish with their thinly veiled innuendos about hooking up with a teenager because “grass on the field means time to play." When she didn’t grow any taller than four and a half feet, the repulsive remarks increased exponentially. 

These disgusting men with even worse fantasies. Wanting to sleep with a tiny girl and not because they’re attracted to her, but because she’s child-sized. It was something her mother had warned her about, but it never got easier. Dana never got used to it, the predator lurking behind the eyes of so many of the men that she encountered. Is it any wonder that her subconscious created a defense? Something to protect her and keep her gentle mind safe while the trash was removed. A monster guarding her from other monsters.

***

Seventeen men have been reported missing in the last twenty-four weeks. The bodies that are recovered have been severely mutilated, all with long swatches of skin peeled away in long strips like a cucumber, all in different areas. What Dana knows (and the news won’t mention) is that the men share something else special. 

Her monster used to keep it hidden. Now, Dana gets to know.

The stripping of their flesh is just foreplay for the beast; the cause of death for each of these perverts is sudden blood loss from a penectomy. Dana looked it up; it’s the medical term for turning them into Ken dolls for their final few breaths on this planet.

Staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, pig-man’s insides caking her body, Dana laughs. She asks herself the same question she’s asked every time she dons this crimson birthday suit. What’s the world with one less sicko?

A better one.

The end.