Nightsiders

3:30 A.M.

The boy watched the wounded kitten as it struggled gamely through the undergrowth at the bottom of the garden, then followed patiently on all fours. He paused for a moment to lick the blood from his fingers. It tasted good, like the memory of something special on his tongue. He had not eaten properly in days—his thin, undernourished body was testament to that—and any food, even this meagre feast, was to be savored.

The girl sat on the porch, her legs swinging as she rocked back and forth, back and forth in the wicker rocker, watching the boy; enjoying the hunt. She turned toward the house, to the powdery light that filtered through the wooden shutters—one of which had been destroyed when the boy had first grabbed the kitten—and smiled. On her thin, pale face, the expression looked venal.

The man and woman were inside, doing things on the kitchen floor. Noisy things. Soft and hard and ugly-moist things the girl didn’t really like to see but couldn’t stop herself from watching whenever the opportunity presented itself. She was interested in a way that made her feel detached, and it set her apart from the others. The man often told her she was too sharp for her own good, but that only made the girl think of a knife blade. And of cutting.

The other boy—the older one who was almost a man—was in there now, watching, and waiting his turn with the woman. Images of what they were doing flashed across a couple of large wall-mounted TV screens. The screens were broken and splashed with paint, but the girl could still make out the action.

The boy capered across the lawn like an animal, pushing through the wiry bushes and out into the clearing beyond the large garden, then along the narrow stream that bordered the length of the property before diverting into a small stone culvert and disappearing underground. Deep underground, where the darkness dwelled and secrets were always hidden.

The boy smiled. His teeth were crooked, and some of them were stained yellow and diseased. His gums were red, even beneath the layer of fresh kitten blood.

He crept up on the animal as it licked its gashed leg. He’d done that with his hands, his long, untrimmed fingernails. Later, he would be forced to take a bath, and then be preened and tidied like a show horse, but for now he could run like a beast.

The cat made a single sound when he grabbed it by the scruff of the neck, his fingers nipping the soft, warm flesh and the soft, warm fur that covered the soft, warm meat.

Soft, warm things were his favorites to play with.

With a flick of his other wrist, the animal’s neck was broken. The cracking-snapping sound it made was clearly audible in the still night, the natural quiet of the countryside this far out of town allowing the sound to travel back to the porch, where the girl sat and giggled.

“Leave me some,” she said. Her voice was low and hoarse, not at all like the unsure tones one might expect to hear coming from the mouth of a small prepubescent girl.

The boy licked his lips before digging in, tearing away the soft bulge of the kitten’s throat and chewing the tender flesh. He swallowed. The taste was…he couldn’t find the right word; his vocabulary was limited, his education negligible after being brought up on the road by the man and the woman.

But his heart responded to the calling of the blood, the sensation of it dripping down across his lips and staining his chin. Oh yes, the words might fail him but the actions were always there, like a second nature, an ancient instinct that had been relearned at some point during his short lifespan.

He stopped short of stripping the flesh from the bone; he saved the rest for the girl. Gripping the dead kitten between his teeth, its wet fur tickling his lips, he walked upright through the low gate and back into the garden. The girl was waiting for him, standing in a wash of yellow light that spilled from the kitchen window in long, thin strips. The man and the woman made moaning sounds from within, their cries rising in pitch and frequency. The older boy laughed.

The small boy held out his kill. The girl reached for it, her hands caressing his wrist. Then she took the fresh meat and retreated to a corner of the porch, where she slid down into a low crouch.

The sound she made while feeding was quite beautiful. It was music to the boy’s ears.