Bloody Mistletoes
..1..
"Three, pass me that knife please?" James asks, studying the dissects of the frog as I gag and grab the blade of the knife and give it to him.
"Ouch." I get a little scrape on my pointer finger.
"That's no big deal." James snaps, and glares me down. His eyes are black, but not a shiny black full of love. They're cold and dark, like empty pits that never seem to stop.
His eyes scare me, mostly because they used to be a warm, friendly brown, but he changed them.
James is a scientist. Not one to prescribe you Nitrogen or heal your sore foot. He creates experiments, and horrible ones. Monsters, creatures, disgusting pits of slime.
It's terrifying, but I'm used to it.
Me? I'm just along for the ride. If it wasn't for the death of all my family members - I don't blame them for dying, I'm not that inconsiderate - that I'm stranded in this broken, dark mansion without my adoptive mom, Hayley.
"Three," He snaps my attention back to the dead frog guts and I gag again.
"Oh, just give me the scissors."
I do, and he cuts up the skin which makes me kick myself to not vomit.
"Go upstairs and make dinner, Ms. Squirmy," He scowls, pointing up to the stairs.
I make a dissapointed sound as I start for upstairs.
As I tap up, I see out the window that night is falling. It gives the dark, gloomy mansion an eerie, scary glow.
Maybe if I microwave some burritos?
I have to open a couple of doors and squint through the darkness to flick on lights and go to the kitchen.
Finally, when I've walked through a dozen corridors, I get to the kitchen and give a click of my tongue.
I open the fridge, hoping he went shopping.
No luck.
I guess we have to eat frog again.
Yay. Wonderful.
I gag as I take the leftovers of the frog we had yesterday and slap it on the table. Just then, James comes in.
He has grey hair from stress, and black eyes. He doesn't have any wrinkles or anything that suggests he's old - his hair and eyes are really his only features.
"What's for dinner?"
"Frog."
"No tacos?"
"No, someone forgot to buy freaking tacos," I snap. He glares at me again.
I lower into my seat and grab a cigarette from his bag. He introduced them to me, and cigarettes are addicting.
I light it up and puff out smoke.
"I'm not hungry," I mumble.
"More for me," He tries to joke, but it comes out hollow and disgusting to me. I shiver, even though it's not cold.
"I was thinking about having a Christmas party."
"Where'd you get that idea?"
"I thought about it for a couple weeks."
"But you're an orphan and your brother is dead."
"Thanks, Sherlock."
"Don't use that tone, bitch."
"Anyway. Yes or no?"
"Why?"
"I'll help you experiment from there on."
"Promise?"
"Hell yes."
"Okay. Fine."
"That easily?"
"Well, I need help."
The cigarette hangs loosely from my lips as I nod yes and get up.
"I'm going into town."
He looks up, smirking. "You have to help me."
I roll my eyes, suddenly annoyed. "After the party, idiot!"
"'Kay, fine, ass."
That's Uncle James. Calling his orphaned-fake niece a bitch.
