They call me a freak.

I live in the old church surrounded by crosses and hang garlic cloves from every stained-glass window and revel in the sunshine that pours through the coloured panes.

They call me a freak because I’m not like them.

They’ve stopped visiting now. I never invite them across the threshold. I know they only came seeking answers. I was a science experiment, a mutation. I could have been their future, instead they see me as a threat.

They call me a freak.

The humans still come though, and when they do, I take my feed and savour the sweet taste of blood, just like them.

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Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (more details HERE). The idea is to write a short story of 100 words based on the photo prompt (above).

To read stories of 100 words based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.

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