Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Soured Milk, 8

"Goodness! Oh, my!" he grinned from ear to ear, rubbing his hands together like a wolf about to devour his prey, "Such delicacies on offer today, heh-heh!"

Sven stood beside him, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cigarette; looking so fucking unconcerned with it all that I wanted to punch him right in the face.  

"A proper little lamb, this one, heh!" the old man roared, smacking Sven in the back, throwing him forward and crashing to the ground.

He looked up at me with such a pitiful expression; one that almost resembled shame, and I had to look away while he struggled to get up from the floor, retreating into himself like a turtle ducking into its shell.

A damn coward, that's what he was. The way he conveniently announced that he'd grown sick of me a day after this 'old friend of his' dropped in for a visit, pretending that it was of his own selfless generosity and accord to pass me along. He must've been out of his fucking mind to actually think I'd believe it. I guess it goes to show how little he thought I knew him, but it didn't take a genius to see that it killed him; how his friend simply swooped in and stole me away, like the whole of Sven's existence was as trivial as the dirt on his boot.

And It wasn't so much Sven's feelings for me, but his terrible need for possession, that made it so hard for him to watch me leave. And while I was infuriated by the audacity of these two assholes, and the very idea of being passed around like a fucking toy, I decided to go along with it out of spite for Sven. To stick the knife in and twist it, too.

"So, my lambkin, will you come and sit on my lap? I have such wonderful stories to tell, heh."

I smiled, looking over at Sven, who winced and looked away, "I'm all yours."