Macabesity

         I relished strolling through the park in my old age, veteran wife at my side. There was nothing better than telling my arthritis to go to hell, as I walked on, of course only after the Vicodin gave me a kick in the right direction. The grass surrounding the walkway was severely green, perfect to many austere lawn owners. Trees, semi-thick, were scattered about the park.
         My gorgeous wife's white hair fluttered, caught in a summer breeze. She turned to me with the same adorable smile she wore in high school. Every guy chased after that smile, but once it was mine, they were shit out of luck. Her velvet lips pressed against my cheek, as she hooked her arm around mine.
         "I love you ," Clare said. She had a half loaf of bread tucked under her other arm. I never cared much about feeding ducks, but I cherished watching Clare's bright grin as the ducks waddled greedily for sustenance.
         "I love you too, dear." I pecked her back on the cheek. She playfully batted her eyelashes, in a lucky-me expression. I don't know how I would've lived all these years without her. Here she was pushing sixty, and her spirit was twenty. I never understood men who needed tail on the side or grew tired of their wives, because the more time I spent with Clare the more I wanted to be around her.
         As we neared the pond, a bizarre noise caused my wife's eyes to narrow in curiosity. A faint squishing sound, mingled with a low, drawn quacking sound. As if a duck were attempting to moo. "Oh dear," my wife said. "What's that noise?"
         Slowly, with concern, I shook my head, I don't know. In my natural instinct to protect Clare, I started to walk slightly ahead of her, holding her hand behind me, leading her.
         "Wait!" she said. "Let's just go back. We don't have to feed the ducks today."
         "Honey, I'm sure it's fine. We come here all the time." But, I wasn't totally convinced of my tone. The sound was far too disturbing to be anything less than suspect. Nevertheless, I couldn't allow a simple sound to quail me before my lovely wife, and terminate her Saturday delight.
         We wound around the last curve of the walkway before the pond, and a small boy--maybe five years old--came into view. He was hunched over near the water, shirtless; his face was turned away from us.
         "What is he doing?" from Clare.
         I shook my head in the same I don't know, except this time much slower, grave. My breathing became more rattled as my nerves tangled up. Certainly there was no reason for alarm with such a small boy...if only that God-awful sound hadn't been coming from him.
         When we were about ten feet behind him, I turned to my wife. "Stay here."
         She nodded once, eyes horrified, lips quivering. I touched her cheek, softly, to let her know it would all be okay. I crept toward the boy, the sound squishing louder. I assumed my wife had stayed put, as I requested, but now I wish I had just looked back once, to make sure, but I was too frightened. Too intently fixed upon this boy. I was afraid that if I looked away, something terrible would happen. Three feet away from him, I stopped. "Hey boy!" I said. "Where are your parents?"
         The squishing stopped. For a long dreadful moment, the boy didn't so much as twitch. Then, his head skulked around to face me. The first thing I could see was the blood. His lips creaked into a smile, revealing his blood-streaked teeth. Feathers clung to the gooey crimson of his cheeks. A gutted duck lay in his lap as he stared, grinning. After a few seconds, I realized he wasn't focusing on me, but behind me. Yet, I still couldn't look away, too petrified to turn my back to him. I instantly became sweaty, my throat dry. My heart pounded fiercely; I felt that I would croak if I didn't have my heart pills soon.
         As the boy stood, the duck fell to the ground. Head limp. That was when Clare screamed, deafeningly high-pitched. My trance broke, and I looked back at Clare, who was now to my right rather than back behind me. A growling sound dragged from the boy's throat, as he charged at Clare. I grabbed for him and he chomped the shit out of my finger. Almost snatching it off during mid run. He pounced onto Clare, knocking her to the ground; she let out an umph! I'll never forget her screams as he chewed on her face. She smacked and kicked at him, but he clung like a leech, gnawing and growling.
         After a couple of seconds, I was able to flip into action. I ran (poor Clare later on told me that she expected I had run away for good). I found a good sized rock and sprinted back to her as fast as my crunching knees would allow. I didn't aim, just dove, smashing the boy in the back of his head with the soft-ball sized stone. Blood squirted from his fresh wound, splashing on my face and shirt.
         The boy fell off of her like a dead dog. Blood gushed out of his head, wasting into the grass. Clare looked at me, bawling. And I'll tell you now, I felt reprehensible, but it took everything I had to not wince away from her. Patches of flesh on her cheek, nose, chin and forehead were just meaty excavations. She wrapped her arms around me, sobbing and bleeding onto my shoulder.
         We were under suspicion for murder until the autopsy revealed my wife's flesh in the boy's stomach. The plastic surgeons filled the holes well, although she kept the spider-web scars for the remainder of her life. She never fed the ducks again.