She had fashioned the pike over the course of a month. The Skovgård greenhouse was solely her domain. At the insistence of Magnus Skovgård, she had taken on the groundskeeping duties of her father at 16. Nothing good comes of demanding that a girl with no remaining family, 40 years his junior stay on the property at all times.
It had started life as a spade, faithfully serving her father as he turned the soil, diving into the dirt to sever roots greedy for more than their share of nutrients, ready to choke out the more delicate and reserved flowers.1
Malice and vindictiveness were long past - A distant memory. Only certainty remained as she formed and curled the metal with the wooden hammer used for training spikes. She knocked out the steps as they fought the new conical shape. As she considered the impending date, the rusty patina looked as though it would provide too much resistance during its fleshy journey. Carefully and considerately, she carved away the rough surface, lightly polishing what remained.
It had cored him. A grotesque cylinder of flesh and organ grease was extracted from his sweaty, hairy outards and engorged innards. The first was nearly five inches long, a full inch in diameter. A gory hole started to fill with chunky black blood under his left ribs. His own vile weight had been used against him. He reeled upon realizing her betrayal, falling back into a stack of clay pots.
This was no man. Fenna saw. The potent acidity of her vision corroded the facade, revealing the hellish figure beneath. A hot, whiplike tongue unrolled out as he rose to strike back. The eyes, revealed to be bloodshot yellow-green spheres, began to bulge. The brow dug behind them, pushing well beyond the limits of the facial muscles, their fibres madly snapping and like high-tension cables caught in a tornado. Her coolness prevailed, putting his rage-filled retaliation to rest. The next core came from his windpipe. It ejected the first out the back of the pike’s makeshift tube, landing on his rotund form before rolling into his upturned palm. The hand mechanically opened and closed, the result of a nervous system fractured at it’s most central pathway. It was as though he was grasping for understanding, but there was none to be had.
When confronted with their sins, people like Magnus could not just accept their part - It was almost not even their fault. Centuries of breeding and indoctrination taught them that these acts were a part of their position, bestowed upon them by God himself through fortune and favor. If God hadn’t wanted them to have this life, this influence, why else would they have it?
Fenna saw.
Footnotes
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It’s not a metaphor, you’re a metaphor. ↩