They come for me in broad daylight.
Over the last few years, they had removed nine toes, 12 teeth, one finger, and three feet of my large intestine. There are no scars. They leave no other evidence. They take what they want and leave me with less and less each time. Every visit diminishes me.
People can’t see them. Dogs can, though. Cats, too. Maybe birds. They’ll howl or hiss or fly away, but that won’t deter the visit. From what I’ve learned, nothing will.
My right thumb was taken four days ago. I was walking to the supermarket when I felt the telltale prickles of static electricity cascading down the back of my head and neck. Pigeons in the area began to screech. The sense of weightlessness I’d grown to know and dread swept over me, and as I was lifted into the clear sky, I saw my replacement continue his walk. He always continues exactly where I’d left off.