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Summary
Suppertime.
After killing Mushnik, Seymour falls apart. Audrey II tries to put him back together.
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One thick vine wrapped itself around his waist and pulled him close to the lukewarm flesh of the plant. He thrashed, trying to struggle away, but the vine’s grip was firm and unyielding.
“What are you—”
“Hasn’t anybody ever hugged you,” Twoey asked. “It’s supposed to be comforting.” Seymour had been hugged before, by Audrey plenty of times. That was comforting. This was not. He tried to tell her as much.
“Relax, Krelborn,” Twoey interrupted, voice smooth and sweet. She brushed his sweaty hair out of his face with a leaf. “We’re friends, right? It’s not like I’m gonna hurt you.”