Mrs. Turner’s Dinner

    His mom kissed him hastily on the forehead. She knelt down, her light blue uniform creasing and folding around her hips. “Love you, honey, behave." She smelled like perfume and coffee, and breathed impatience and work onto his forehead. His mom stood up and looked at his sitter: “I should be back around 10:30, thanks for watching him, Ms. Turner.” He never understood why his Mom always had to leave him here. It seemed like a weird thing to do. Here, it smelled like wet carpet, and the chemicals his mom used to clean the kitchen. How could she not tell this place was bad? His mom left, rushing into the night. Mrs. Turner stood in front of him like an impossibly large wall of flesh; wherever he looked, there seemed to be more of her. Fat and skin rolled down her face, spattered with boils and white wiry hair. “Timmy, how are you today?” Her lips smacked audibly as she spoke. She had a scratchy, high voice for someone of her size. “Fine, Ms. Turner” he said as he stared down at his feet. He heard the slam of his Mom’s car door outside and as the engine lurched to life he knew he was stuck.

    Timmy spent a couple hours watching T.V. on Mrs. Turner's old stained couch. Whenever he shifted his weight on it squeaked and moaned. Before long, it was time for dinner. Mrs. Turner stared at him as they sat down to eat. She cut into her steak, and Timmy into his. Mrs. Turner didn’t just cut her steak, she attacked it. She sawed though it with her steak knife with incredible power. At one point her knife reached the bone, and sawed clear through it. As she pulled the slice to her mouth, Timmy saw it almost completely raw on the inside. He tried not to stare, and he looked down
at his plate. “Something wrong, boy?” As she opened her mouth, Timmy saw all her teeth were sharp. A single bead of blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth, slowly making its way through the folds of her face. She chewed more with her mouth open, staring at him intently with one eye. “I'm just not that hungry,” Timmy said. Before long nothing but a puddle of blood was left on her plate. Mrs. Turner still looked hungry, though, as she stared at little Timmy.

By: Webb Hinton