This establishment is self-service

I felt like if I ate any more I would surely be sick. 

“And the cake next,” the figure demanded. I did as she ordered and put more onto my plate. 

 “I don’t think I can do it,” I heaved, but kept it all down. The swollen joints in her fingers stretched for the delicate fork. 

She did not look like the other impostors with their loose skin or the eyes too far down inside the corpse they stole. This one got the bones wrong. Too many teeth for a human face. Hands that jutted out at perverse angles from her wrist bones. The first time she smiled was when I opened the door, and by then it was too late.  

 From some deep and hidden well within I felt her hunger. For all those teeth she couldn’t feed. Only live her eternal fast through another. And if I refuse, she would have me eat another part of myself. 

 “The cake next,” she reiterated, and ran the fork over my stump.

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