He speaks.
"Which one of you is the human assassin?”
“What?! Get out of here, freak! I’ll call the police; you see if I don’t!” Mark shouts threats at him that make less than no sense. What would we tell the police if we called them? Excuse me, but there’s an alien in our kitchen. They would think we were mad. We’d both be taken to the lunatic asylum, assuming there was anything of us left. My eyes follow the path from the alien's shoulders to his elbows to his hands, every part of him more muscular and frightening than the last. He has fists like hammers. When he flexes his hands, I see that his large fingers terminate in unholy claws.
This is a creature made to kill.
“Get out of my house, do you hear me! Get out, see!” Mark tries his best to bully the creature away, but he is not used to dealing with larger, terrifyingly erratic and aggressive beings. I know it is best to make myself appear as little like a threat as possible.
Mark makes the final mistake he will ever make in this life by picking up a butter knife. There are still traces of butter on it from where I was hopelessly attempting to make him a second sandwich to rectify the first.
The creature lets out a roar and rushes forward with an incredible speed that makes it seem as though he teleported from one place to the other. One moment he is menacing us from a distance, the next he is running his claws through Mark’s midsection like a warmed knife through breakfast butter.
Mark’s dead almost right away, but the alien doesn't seem satisfied with merely killing him. It continues ripping into him until there are bits of Mark absolutely everywhere. Mark is on the ceiling. Mark is on the hand towel. Mark is all over the clean dishes, and the dirty ones too. Mark is in the tile grout. Mark is on the anniversary plates. Mark is on the windows. Mark is on the floor. Mark is dripping over the glass flower balls. It would be easier to state all the places Mark is not.
I am left staring, shocked. Amazed at how much blood is in a person. It took several gallons of the finest paint to set this kitchen to the lovely sunlight yellow it was. Now Mark has turned it almost orange with the spray of his bright red blood.
It does not occur to me to be afraid. There are some things, that when witnessed, make one stop being anything at all. Thinking, feeling, they are extra and completely useless. I don’t think I am going to survive, so there is little point in attempting to.
“Hello.”
I say the word politely. We haven’t said hello yet.
“Hello,” the alien who just murdered my husband says. “I am here to arrest you.”
“Oh. Okay. For what?”
“For the murder of Sylvania, would-be bride of King Krush of Megaris.”
“For murder? But…”
“Don’t talk, human. Not another word.”
I do as he says, because I have seen the consequences of not doing what he says. Silence is the only sane response to this level of crazy. He touches me, wraps his hands around my wrists, and I feel Mark lubricating the space between us. He’s still warm for the moment. He’s going to dry on my skin. He’s going to stick to me. This is the last intimacy we will ever enjoy.
The alien breathes over me. I feel the oddest tension. It is a hot, dark thing. It is an invitation to desire. I do not take it, but I could. I let him secure me with tight bonds, thick, heavy cloth wraps that hold me in place. He doesn't need to tie me up. I wouldn’t resist him. He has effectively destroyed absolutely every part of my life in a matter of seconds.
I feel a rush of affection, or something very much like it. Maybe gratitude. I married Mark for love, but he became something entirely unloveable in the course of our marriage. Now he is gone. Utterly removed. There is nothing of him left at all besides what is scattered all over the kitchen and smeared on my skin.
“Why can I smell arousal on you, human? Are you pleased by my destruction of your weak and petty mate?”
“I’m not aroused,” I lie.
“I do not need words from you," he tells me. “I can smell the truth. And I imagine I could feel it too.”
The claws on his thick fingers retract as he reaches between my legs and runs his hand between my thighs. He touches me with possessive ownership. I feel myself tighten with anticipation of something I should not want. This is a cruel beast, but also an ardent one.
I feel his rough fingers dragging up the inside of my thighs with a slow and purposeful motion. He finds the core of me with the pads of his fingers, massaging me in the place where only my husband was ever supposed to touch me.