Last Mistake
Unbeknownst to the denizens of the city of London, one of their many bridges was host to a terrible creature that lived on the flesh of human beings. The beast had lived quietly for many years, preying only on the homeless & disenfranchised so as to avoid detection by the millions dwelling above his head, afraid of the possibility that the bloody history of his kind could repeat itself; in the stories of medieval Europe, he & his ilk would have been known as Trolls, feared for their preternatural strength, man-eating tendencies & habit of stealing children from their beds, only to leave a sinister changeling in its place, & were thus hunted & burned by the most capable of men. This Troll had learned from these tales & ensured that he’d never repeat his ancestors’ mistakes.
Late at night, as Troll tidied his victims’ bones into piles about his lair, he heard the the hurried footsteps of some unsuspecting pedestrian crossing the bridge above him. Adorning a simple hoodie & scarf to hide his true nature, the beast climbed the steel frame of the bridge to intercept the possible victim. The runner was a boy of about 15, a look of terror on his face but not for the Troll.
“Whoa there, lad,” the Troll said, his voice reminiscent of a brass horn filled with gravel, “what’s the hurry? Is someone after you?”
The teenager replied, “W-wha- N-nothing…” he paused, “I mean, yeah. Me an’ me parents were mugged. I think they followed us!”
The Troll paused. A family? Drat! And a Mugger? Should I chance it? I’m SOOO hungry! No, I mustn’t chance it. I should ask him, first. “Do you live around here? Is there anyone around that you know. That you can trust?” He finally said.
“Y-yeah!” the boy said.
Double Drat! The Troll thought. “Then go to them & call the police. I’ll tell your parents!”
The boy continued to run. The Troll wondered, is the mugger local? I could take him. He grinned to himself, barely noticing a man running towards him from across the bridge. The man thundered to a stop, panting & exhausted. This would be so easy, he thought as his stomach rumbled again.
“Did Billy- Did my s-son…” the man wheezed, “did a boy run past you?!”
“He’s your son?” the Troll replied.
“Yes, his name is Billy, did you see where he went?!” the boy’s father said, regaining his composure.
“He said he was going to someone he knew from around here. Do you know where he’s going?” said the Beast.
“I think so. Thank you, so much!” the father replied.
Just before the man disappeared from view, the Troll finally thought, the Mother, & called after him, “What about his Mum?” But the man had seemingly run out of earshot, & finally vanished into the dark. The Troll then heard the sharp, rhythmic clicking & tapping of heels on the bridge. His stomach rumbled again, loudly. Why do they cross one at a time? And where is that bloody mugger?! The Troll pondered in frustration. As the sound of approaching heels finally came to a stop, he turned, sighing slightly, but, in an instant, his frustration turned into surprise. The woman standing before him, was not like his previous two encounters; she was of Asian descent, possibly Japanese as she wore a surgical mask over her face which, he had heard, the Japanese tend to do when they are sick so as not to infect others.
“あなたは私がかなりだと思いますか?” the newcomer said.
“Anata wa watashi ga kanarida to omoimasu ka?” the Troll said back to her, confused, “What does that mean?”
She turned her head to the side, not unlike a puppy, & attempted to repeat her words in English, something the Troll thought she should have attempted from the beginning, standing in the heart of London.
“Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked.
As of now, the Troll was completely lost. She stared into his large, yellow eyes, apparently unfazed by their appearance or the the nature of the creature behind them. She seemed to be growing impatient, continuing her head-turning with increasing frequency. Finally, the confusion subsided & the Troll felt obliged to humour her.
“Yes.” he replied. With a grin.
She seemed to smile, if only with her eyes while her face remained hidden by her mask. Then, in yet another unexpected twist, before the Troll could say another word, the woman removed the surgical mask. Looking up into his large yellow eyes, once more, she revealed her true affliction; from ear to ear, a horrifying wound had been carved into her face through both of her cheeks, leaving her jaws exposed & giving her a vicious appearance. The Troll removed his hood & scarf so as to examine her face more easily; this woman was no simple human & feared exposure far less than he did her true nature. She could see, even through his own grizzled features, permanent scowl & tusked maw, that his expression had changed & asked again:
“And now? Am I pretty, now?”
Wary of this being, the Troll replied, “Yes, you are pretty.”
Each end of her scar curled upwards, like a smile, &, faster than even his eyes could follow, she drew a pair of rusty, bloody sheers from the pocket of her coat & held them up to his face, “Then I’ll shall make you pretty, too!” she screeched at him. The blades came together with a dull squelching sound, meeting within the Troll’s mouth above his tongue with short metallic screech, & the black bile of the beast’s veins poured out over crude tusk & alabaster hand both. With a guttural roar, the Troll backed off &, as his adversary advanced towards his wounded form, he swiped at her with monstrous arms, sending her over the edge of the Troll’s bridge into the Thames below. He fell to his knees, spluttering on his own black blood until his own, strange gift, near-instantaneous healing, began to knit his cheek back together. Rising to his feet, ready to call it a night & feast on London’s rats, the Troll heard the clicking of heels once more & turned, vengeful hatred burning in his chest, only to see that no one was there. Confused & concerned, the Troll ventured onto his bridge, sniffing the air but only catching the scent of the Thames. Then he felt it; the sharp pain at the base of his skull & the heat of his own blood pouring down his back. He gasped, his vile breath visible in the cold London air, & then the sheer blades parted, & so did his head from his neck. The woman, a dreaded Kuchisake-onna, crossed the bridge, unchallenged, & continued to ask her terrible question.
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
Billy Goats Gruff/Kuchisake-onna
Damon Mealor 