The Perfect Match

My mother comes into my room every night at exactly 3:00 AM. I keep my eyes shut, but I can feel her cold fingers tracing the length of my jugular. 'Such sturdy vessels,' she whispers, her voice trembling. 'They'll hold up beautifully.' For weeks, she has forced me to eat her special heavy stews. They taste metallic, like rust or old blood, but she watches me swallow every bite with a terrifying, obsessive intensity. Yesterday, I found a stack of my photos hidden in her vanity; she had drawn thick red cross-marks over my chest and abdomen on every single one. Tonight, the rhythmic *shhh-shhh* of a knife being sharpened in the kitchen woke me up. When the footsteps stopped outside my door, I knew time was up. I burst out of the room, sprinting for the exit. I looked back, expecting to see a monster chasing me. Instead, Mom was just standing in the hallway, watching me flee with the most gentle, loving smile I have ever seen.