He breathed deeply, absorbing the fragrant, humid air. To some the room would be constricting, claustrophobic. To him it was comforting, soothing.
He slid past the table, stopping at the counter. Supplies were scattered across the surface. His eye twitched at the mess, his anxiety over disorder building.
“This will never do.” His voice slithered out in a sibilant hush. The skittering behind him brought a smile. He could almost taste the fear. A slender bottle of cinnamon clutched in his fingers, he turned.
“Just a dash,” he cooed as he dumped the contents into the girl’s wrenched open mouth.
The word this week is Cinnamon over at Velvet Verbosity’s place.
I just read a really creepy book (review coming soon) and with The Husband’s recent flash fictions my mind is going to dark places.