The Lizard Man Who Kills Me
Usually, I’m okay.
But every now and then, I have this fantasy where
there’s a knock at my door and I open it, and see the Lizard Man and he’s about six-feet-tall, with scaly skin, yellow eyes, a muscular build, and three clawed fingers on each hand.
Before I can say anything he slashes me across the belly and white-hot pain spreads through my body and I look down and watch my guts spill out onto the floor as a waterfall of blood flows over my legs.
I start to fall to the ground and the lizard man catches and he holds me in his arms, and carefully drags a clawed finger across my cheek.
“I’m sorry,” He says, his voice quiet, comforting. “This was the only way.”
“It’s okay,” I say. I’m crying. The pain is mostly gone, but the sorrow isn’t. “It’s what you had to do. It’s better this way. I’m not mad at you.”
And my sobs drown out my words and the lizard man pulls me closer as I cry into his shoulder.
Darkness clouds my vision and I can no longer hear myself cry and I’m dead.
But aside from that I’m usually pretty solid.
