According to Urban Dictionary, ghosting is defined as “the act of ceasing all communication” without any given explanation. When the term “ghosting” is used, seen, or heard, I’m distinctly reminded that this absurd notion has been planted into the hearts of mankind by a generation of thoughtless, mindless, human beings: cowards—I’d like to call them. Somehow, society has deemed it as acceptable, appropriate even, to ghost an individual who has invested enough time of his or her life to talk to the likes of a weakling; a broken little bitch.
I’ve been ghosted by many tortured men, ones who would rather swallow their saggy balls than blatantly answer my questions on communication. But there is one man in particular who had scraped his nails against the chalkboard, sunk his teeth into my flesh. He was cunning with every touch, charming with every word, licked verses, and poems into every curve of my power. I bent and rode the meat of his vows and screamed out his name when he succeeded in winning the cat-and-mouse game. But when he ghosted without a single exposition in his tool belt, well, let’s just say, I refuse to accept the utter disrespect.
I watch his knuckles flex under the knife that pierces the back of his hand, blood spooling over his pale flesh, staining the crevices of the wooden dining table. He’s been tied to the chair by callous white ropes, and I can see the veins in his arms thicken as he buckles against the strain. My husband had stripped him of his clothes, down to his tight black briefs and unmatched socks before stabbing him with knives in both of his hands, nailing him to the table. His mouth is covered with a thick cloth between his teeth, tied tight behind his head. He ceased all his screams and groans once the act was done, and now, every time he moves a muscle in his hand, every flinch and flex and pulse made, a trickle of blood spills from the blade. I attempt not to wet my soiled lips at the sight of it, doing my best not to lean forward and taste the copper on my tongue. I’m sure my husband wouldn’t mind. He…
I pause my fingers that were typing avidly on the keyboard before me, and sigh.
“How’s your writing, baby?” My husband says from behind me.
I tip my head back and look up at my husband who crookedly smiles from above. I bite my bottom lip at that. “I’m stumped,” I pout. He lowers himself to kiss me. “Is dinner almost ready?” I ask. I inhale the scent of freshly grilled steak and baked potatoes, licking my perched, hungry lips.
“I just finished, love,” he nods. He turns around to the kitchen counter and retrieves the dinner plate prepared for me. “Your filet mignon awaits.”
I quickly save my work, close my laptop, and move it aside as he places the food in front of me. I moan at the sight of his work, aching to sink my teeth into that thick meat. I eagerly grab the fork and steak knife and cut into the tenderloin. I curse at how succulent it is, juices and blood gushing from the slice.
“Fuck, look at that.” I take a bite and slowly chew, moaning at the delicious flavor of the meat. My husband curses as I let its blood drip down my chin.
“I got you, baby,” he says, leaning down to run his tongue along the path, lapping up the rest of the mess. “You don’t want to waste it,” he whispers. After I swallow, he asks for a taste. I smile, openly obeying his command as he kisses me deeply, savoring every tart and spice of it, sucking, biting, nibbling, and swallowing each drop.
“So fucking delicious, baby,” he moans when he pulls away.
I wink, “You definitely outdid yourself.”
He sits down beside me and pecks me on the cheek. I cut another slice. “So, why are you stumped?” He asks.
I glimpse at the laptop and shrug, “I don’t know. It’s not like the last time. I mean, I feel like…I need more. I wonder if we could–”
“Be a little messier? Like before?” He smirks.
“Would it hurt?” I ask between chews. “I mean, you know how descriptive I can be.”
He smiles and leans forward. “What do you need from me, mi amor? How can I be of assistance?”
I gulp down my food and pick up the glass of red wine in front of me. I place the rim to my lips, ponder proposals that travel through my mind. I begin to think out loud, hoping that my husband could develop some ideas as well. “Well, honey, you know I want it to be bloodier. Torturous even. This time, I also want it to be…symbolic, to the readers, of course.” I bring the wine to my mouth and take a sip.
From the corner of my eye, our black cat finds her way to the end of the table. She jumps up on the chair with ease, reaching up to place her tiny paws at the edge of the placemat. She stretches her neck to peer at the treat before her, and her ears perk up when she notices the slightest shift in our bones. She then begins to stare, golden eyes wide and dilated, quite intrigued.
I turn my attention back to my husband. He raises his eyebrows at my suggestion and nods. “Okay, I see what you mean,” he thinks, tapping his thumb on his knee. “What if you…chop off his ring finger?”
I look at his amused expression. “Are you mocking me?”
He quickly shakes his head, taking my hands in his. “No! Baby, I’m serious! I mean you want it to be symbolic. Why not teach him a lesson? He wants a wife, right? He wants to get married someday. But how can he expect that if he can’t do the one simple thing needed in a relationship?”
“Oh my, yes! Fuck yes!” I set the glass down. “Exactly! That is just…so beautiful, baby. Fuck! And I want him to choke…yes, in the end, it needs to be bloody! Like a cleanly sliced artery. I want to see it, taste it, for him to bathe in it. I want to be…just mesmerized.”
My husband bites his lip, his eyes suddenly starve. “Yes, a perfect slow cut to the throat; my favorite act.” He sinfully smiles, flattening his fingers against my hollow throat.
My eyes light up at this, and I nod quickly, becoming increasingly excited. “Yes, baby. I can see it right now. The impeccable gush of blood painting his skin, his bulging, fearful eyes–”
“And don’t forget his screams, honey. Those beautiful, lovely screams.”
“Yes! Fuck!” I lean over to kiss him, my arms wrapping around his neck. “You are such a good husband. You are everything, my King.”
He moans against my lips and pulls me onto his lap. As his tongue sucks and devours mine, our cat lunges onto the table, meows at the smacking sounds of our mouths as she slowly walks across. We break apart when we begin to hear her slurp.
“Merida!” I screech.
She looks at me immediately. I shake my head at her, “Tsk, tsk. Be nice to our guest, Merida!”
She licks the blood once more and then turns her body around to face me. She then sits next to it; her feathered tail tickling the man’s skin. He twitches, more blood oozing under the knife.
I look at the man tied and bound to the chair, the wooden handle of the blade sticking upright from the back of his palms.
“My apologies,” I say. “She has a dark sense of humor.”
He groans against the white cloth, eyes wide with fear, utter disgust. He must be embarrassed; Merida loves the taste of his blood.
I acknowledge my husband, smooth my knuckles against his tan cheek, his eyes glowing and murderous. “It looks like you have some work to do, my King.”
He sucks in his bottom lip, and I catch it between my teeth. “Yes, mi amor.”
I slide off his lap and sit back in my chair. I open my laptop once he goes into the kitchen to retrieve a butcher knife. I take another bite of my steak. The man begins to tremble in horror, and with every move comes more blood to seep from his hands. I can sense the pain in his flesh, how tortuous that may be. I close my legs together then, tightening the space between them. I find myself to be incredibly aroused. I mean, he doesn’t understand how beautiful he is; so helpless and weak. God, if he begged for me, if he knew how soaked I was in these tights, I might even fuck him.
“You see,” I sigh. “This is what happens when you ghost.”
My husband is next to him now, and Joe Schmoe has the audacity to groan in protest.
“I’m sorry, what was that? Would you like to be castrated instead? ” I ask.
He shakes his head continuously, drool leaking down the corners of his mouth. I smirk, and then nod at my husband.
As I watch my love chop off his ring finger, hear Logan’s muffled cry echo our haunted halls, I begin typing frantically like a possessed Mr. Poe. Soon enough, I become mesmerized by the blood gushing all over our bodies, by his chokes that bewitch our ears, by my husband who doesn’t stop the kill. I watch him with bewilderment, smile as he continues to mutilate the corpse’s flesh like a beastly god in war, entranced in the butcher and maim of every limb and organ in sight. I laugh as delicious meat splatters his cheeks and mine.
And Merida just sits there in front of it all, gawking at the scene as if she’s seen a feast.
“Perfect!” I beam, wiping the stains off my teeth. “Just fucking perfect!”
