Mine (Jenlisa)

seven.

Jennie's POV~

An hour passed, maybe two, before she came to the kitchen. I'd calmed down a bit. There was no way she would stitched up a cut before murdering me, right? Al least, that made sense in my mind. If I could her placated, I could figure out a way to get out, even if it will take awhile. Even if she did... other things to me. I shivered at the twist of unwelcome desire that ran through me at the thought.

When she walked in with her knife gleaming though, I could not help, but flinched.

"Easy kitten," she spoke. She opened the fridge and pulled out a plate of something, but I could not see what it is. Oh Lord, I hoped it is not human parts.

I swallowed hard and tried to relax. Get her comfortable.

"My name is Jennie," I introduced myself, "What is your name?"

Her back was turned to me, silverware clanking against the plate.

"I want to know more about you," I said, gulping.

She peered at me over her shoulder, her brows suspicious.

"A name means nothing. You can call me Lisa."

"Lisa," I cast around in my brain for more to keep her talking. She turned back around with the plate and I saw it clearly now. No human parts- a rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes, and some green beans. She put the plate down next to my head. I could smell the meaty scent of the chicken and it reminded me of the smell of the man she'd burned in the fireplace. My stomach wrenched and I tried not to heave.

A loud clang bought my attention back to the table next to me. She set the knife down right next to my cheek.

"Wha- what is that?"

"Dinner," she answered. She forked a mouthful of chicken into her mouth.

"I mean the knife."

"It is just a knife kitten. It's nothing. Just a prop. If I am going to be a serial killer, I have to have a knife," she chuckled.

"You are a serial killer. What do you mean, just a prop?"

"Just a prop. Like Chekhov's knife," her jaw worked, chewing the next piece of meat, and I frowned. "You mean Chekhov's gun."

"Oh no," she said, "I don't believe in guns. Here," she put a fork of chicken under my nose, "Have something to eat."

My stomach growled. Even with the terrible reminder of the smell of meat, I was hungry. I haven't eaten since.. Well, since lunch the day before. Reluctantly, I opened my mouth. Her eyes tracked my lips and did not leave them even as I chewed the cold chicken. My appetite came back with a crash after the first bite.

"Why not?" I asked after swallowing.

"Why not what?"

"Why don't you believe in guns?" I repeated. She offered another fork of food and I took it.

"If you shoot someone from far enough away, you can't tell that they are dying. You won't even get to see them die clearly. You don't get to see what you have done. It is sterile, bland. It is not a kill if it's not up close. You miss all the good parts."

I nearly choked on the bite of food, but managed to force it down. She continued to feed me, small bites of mashed potatoes, beans, and chicken. Cold leftovers, but I had never tasted anything so delicious. Even as her words made me shiver, her actions told me that she would not kill me. No, she would do worse, but maybe I could escape.

She sighed, looking off as I finished the bite.

"Guns make death inhuman," she added.

"Would you consider yourself human?" I asked, a thin line of bitterness running into my voice.