Where's Molly (Cat and Mouse #2.5)

The crunch of blunt teeth snapping through bone is a lullaby I could fall asleep to for the rest of my life.

I wrinkle my nose.

The obnoxious lip-smacking that follows, however, is not.

"I can teach you respect, but apparently, manners are asking too much," I mutter, my upper lip curling in disgust as bloody drool splatters onto the plastic tarp spread before my worn boots.

Gross.

I'm in the barn, crouched outside their pens, keeping my distance while the five massive pigs devour their dinner. They could easily grab me through the fence if I got too close, and that's an attack I wouldn't survive. They're incredibly strong. Even if I managed to escape, I'd definitely be missing a few limbs.

It makes me wonder why the world is so afraid of a zombie apocalypse when we're already surrounded by animals more than capable of tearing us apart and devouring every last fucking bit of our flesh and bone.

We're just lucky they haven't figured that out yet. Or rather, they haven't figured out how to escape the prisons we put them in.

Once finished, they eagerly sniff the hay, searching for scraps.

"Last one," I warn them, as if they could understand.

Sadly, they're the only ones I talk to most days. My human interaction is limited, and this pig farm gets awfully lonely. But it's a choice I made for myself.

And I don't fucking regret it.

I toss the rest of the leg at their feet, watching them tear into the severed limb in earnest. Tendons, muscles, and veins shred in a matter of seconds, followed by that satisfying crunch.

Just then, the phone in my back pocket buzzes. Sighing, I slide it out and answer without bothering to check the caller ID. I already know who it is.

"Is it finished?" the female voice asks tonelessly. She's been calling me for the last four years, and I still don't know her name.

"Yup," I answer. "They just ate the last of him."

"Good. We'll contact you when the next subject is due to arrive."

The line goes dead before I can respond. Not that I would've bothered to—that's always been the extent of our conversations.

My human interaction is very limited.

Especially since that's what my pets like to eat for dinner.

"Thanks, Petunia," I chirp to myself. Every time she hangs up, I give her a new name. One day, I'm confident I'll guess her real name correctly at least once, though I'd never know for sure.

I have a feeling it's not Petunia, but crazier things have happened.

I double-check that everything I fed the pigs is completely consumed, then I start the tedious process of cleaning their pens, my table, and the tools. I burn his hair and clothes, scattering his powdered teeth in the mountains behind my house. Ensuring every last trace of Carl Forthright is gone.

The man who was once a rapist and child trafficker is now pig shit.

So fucking poetic.

"You're lucky I love you, little assholes, because you guys are fucking messy," I complain to the snorting pigs, wrinkling my nose when I spot a chunk of flesh on the floor outside their pen.

They're absolute pains in my ass most days, but I wouldn't trade them for the world.

They keep me sane.

And the devil knows that's hanging on by a goddamn thread.