I’ve always been scared to truly write about you. I had once told myself not to; too afraid of fully giving in to the possibility of love. I’ve done it once, written about a man who I thought truly loved me. I wrote poems and sonnets, praised about his love and mine like dandelions in a spring field. But when it died, when his love ended and mine still bloomed, well, the enemy creeped in; slithered into the pits of my soul, and charred it black. I promised not to back then; promised not to write about the romance that would dance in my blood, about any love that I would always believe to be real.
Our story-
I sigh.
I wipe the sweat off my brow and take out a cigarette from the pack next to the laptop. I watch the cursor blink on the screen like a tick on a clock, maneuvering the stick between my fingers, thinking, dwelling, picturing.
Our story…our story was the most, no, our story…dwindles, chaos, the most exquisite kind of love known…a spirited…
My ears perk to the shower continuing to run in the bedroom upstairs. I’m suddenly aware of his presence above and close my eyes at the thought. I release a breath then, the warm breeze prickling along the hairs of my skin from the cracked sliding door behind me. I scoot back my chair, its legs scraping against the hard wood, and grab the pocket lighter behind the screen.
I get up and walk towards the sliding door, my bare feet heavy from the sudden movements of my bones. I pull the door to widen the space and swing open the lighter in my palm.
I don’t understand why… just take me…our story, our story, asking the same questions like any brute I …
I peer out into the woods, its darkness engulfing each howl and cricket sleeping in our backyard, the moon dimly lighting the night. The winds whistle amongst the trees, and they stand there, erect, listening to the cigarette being placed between my lips, to the casual swipe of my thumb against the ignite to entice the flame. I bring the tip to the fire like my life depended on it, and inhale once it sparks.
I close my eyes at the sensation, feeling the drug luminate my blood as I blow smoke into the air of the night. The smell fills my nostrils like sex in a hotel room, and I close the lighter while taking another puff.
Our story…our story…yes, it was stripped of body and bones…full of deceit…of course, I was his lamb to beat…
My eyes pop open to the sound of movement beyond the woods. I heard it; the crack of a tree branch, a pulse in the night. I gaze into the darkness, listen to the quiet, and undisturbed. The trees rustle as a breeze sweeps through them, but no further movement transpired. I take another puff and watch the thick smoke gallop in the air. I close my eyes and think again, scratching my forehead.
A lamb…yes…our story was…our story was…
My eyes pop open to footsteps. I heard them, I swear it; paws…boots against the mud. But when I gaze into the darkness, again, there is nothing there, nothing to be seen or heard, no movement above the moon. I huff out a breath in disbelief and take another puff.
Don’t be ridiculous. It must be the smoke. Anyway, for I was his lamb to…but our story was cunning and sweet…like the demons in my blood…eating flesh beyond…
My eyes pop open, and I gasp, stepping back in horror. I see it then; a being with black fur and pointed horns for ears, staring at me from within the pines.
Its eyes are beastly, yellow, and blazed. And its pupils are wild and ominous, splitting wide open for all to see; a pool of black abyss. The blood vessels are snapped in each eye, and spiders with sable sacs crawled within them, slipping beneath crevices and cracks. Its mouth gapes as if starved for human flesh, exposing a full set of canines that glistened and dripped with blood, thick clots seeping from gums.
It takes another step towards me, and then another and another, its sharp clawed, human feet crunching against the dead debris. Before I move, it pauses, its ears flickering, its nostrils flaring. It looks up to the upstairs window, as if it can hear the shower, the droplets of water in the tub. It tilts its head at this and licks its honed teeth with its snake tongue. It then focuses on me and smiles wide, as if pleased by my taste and tort.
Its feet then firmly plant on the ground and take off running. Towards me!
I scream, slam the door shut, and lock it, stepping back to the kitchen counter as I watch it snarl and begin to crawl. I wait for a smack against the glass, a growl of hunger and need, human claws raking the screen, but after I blink, once, twice, three more times, the beast is gone.
I trudge towards the sliding door in terror, my pulse pounding in my ears, my heart thumping against my chest. But I see nothing. No being or beast. No animal or brute in sight.
I look down at the cigarette, still burning between my fingertips.
This was yours. You cursed it, you sick fuck…our story…our story was fucked because of you…our story, our love…
I quickly swing the curtains closed and release a breath. I walk over to the dining table, putting out the cigarette on the ashtray in the center of it. I hear it buzz as I tap and press the bud, the smell of smoke and tobacco filling my nostrils.
I look at the laptop screen and see that the cursor continues to blink, still waiting to be used and abused, to assist in creating a piece.
I hear a thud above me.
I look up at the ceiling towards the upstairs bedroom.
Another thud.
The shower still runs. I sigh.
I check my phone, tap the screen twice for the time. 10:30 PM.
No footsteps. Still breathing.
I lean down to the keyboard and begin to type:
But our story, my love, was the most exquisite kind of love unknown to mankind. It was packed with chaos and beauty, rich meadows and…no.
Another thud.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
I straighten my back, cupping my mid-section as I bend and stretch the muscle. I sigh once more. This isn’t working. I need…I need more.
I stalk to the kitchen, eyeing the curtain that covered the sliding door, and swiftly swipe the red wine bottle resting on the counter in the corner.
“Our story, our story, our story,” I whisper.
I put the cork between my teeth and pull it out, the pop echoing within the walls. I spit the cork out to the side.
I then swirl the wine in the bottle, nod, and take a swig. I close my eyes and swallow. The sweet burn, the taste of it in my throat…
“Our story, our story, our story,” I repeat again, letting my mind wander, letting the words and phrases flow.
Yes, it must be…
I find myself walking past the living room and climbing up the stairs, the wood creaking with each heavy step, my pulse quickening.
I touch the railing to steady myself, dragging my nails across it as I begin to hum the words to an Ella Fitzgerald song. I bring the rim of the bottle to my lips and take another sip.
I hear a chuckle from behind me and feel a presence to my left. I look over and see nothing, feel nothing once more. I blink and blink again. I hear myself laugh this time at the thought of the beast inside my home. I continue to hum, ignoring the presence that reappears and remains at my back, its solid, furry chest heaving against my hair.
When I approach the top of the stairs, I wander down the hallway and push open the bedroom door. I can see the bathroom from there, the door cracked open, light shining through the gap. Once I step inside, my feet touch a drenched carpet. It’s soaked in water, so much so it’s creating a pool.
Shit. It’s coming from the bathroom.
I slowly walk to the bathroom, my feet stepping on soaked fabrics and wool. I push open the door and watch warm water shove past my bare ankles. The shower continues to pour onto his body, overflowing the porcelain tub and flooding the floor.
I immediately move towards the shower knob, my ankles shifting through the water and blood and bath towels, reaching over his head to twist it off.
“For fucks sake,” I hiss.
I look at him then and sit at the edge of the tub, releasing a breath. I shake my head and sip the wine out of the bottle, his eyes gawking at me in horror.
Slick thick blood continues to ooze from his throat. His hand is still held there because surely, if he puts enough pressure on the wound, he could stop the bleeding and survive my cut. He’s been choking on his own blood and drool for a few minutes now, flowing from the corners of his mouth. It’s quite aesthetically pleasing; gore gushing out of his body, staining his skin. I’m surprised he has enough willpower; he’s holding on as if still insisting his life has more meaning than mine. He said that once, whispered it as he choked and slammed me against the coffee table.
I look at the knife I had placed on the edge of the bathroom sink, blood still dripping from the tip.
I had plans to be messy. I had plans to twist apart his flesh and tear away his limbs, one by one, for every pain he had caused me. I wanted him to feel the fear, the threat of his life and dick being sliced, to feel the ache inside my beaten bones, to feel the disgust of his tongue and licks against my own skin. I wanted his eyes to bulge out of its sockets and have him taste the metal of needles in his throat.
But like all women who once loved a man, a man who ripped out her heart and ate it without woe, I needed him to suffer, to torture and terrorize until he’s begging me to spare him like he’s begging me to fuck.
I reached down in the tub to find the drain between his feet, soaking my skin mixed with his blood. He must have clogged it somehow with the heel of his foot. I push up the knob, hearing the gurgle of the water, watching it swirl and drain below.
I cross my legs and sip the wine. He looks behind me, in the darkness then, and his eyes grow wide in terror and fright. He must feel what I feel; the lingering presence in the doorway. I ignore it this time. It’s not real; he must know that. But he’s growing paler by the minute.
He won’t be much longer, I hear it whisper.
I quickly look behind me to the doorway. But like I thought, no one is there.
“I’m trying to write our love story,” I say, glancing back at him. “And I’m having a bit of a writer’s block at the moment. But you are being so fucking dramatic, trying to flood our home.”
I glimpse at the knife.
“I may need further inspiration. I thought killing you slowly would be the most deserving. I love you too much for it to be done so quickly.”
Yes, yes. Feed me, I hear it say again, aroused and needy.
My husband looks behind me once more, and he attempts to speak or scream in fear, his mouth gaping open. But no sound comes out, just gurgles and chokes, blood purging his neck and tissues. I ignore his pleas, the silent horror in his eyes from whatever stands behind us.
I walk over to the knife and set the wine bottle down. I avoid looking at my reflection and the presence that is now at my shoulder. I grip the handle of the blade in my palm. I hear the being again, pleading, whispering, coaxing out the hunger inside of me.
Yes. Yes. Do it. Feed me. Feed me. Please me. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Now! Now! Now!
I slowly walk to my husband and kneel down beside the tub, the knife ready, thirsty, glistening in the light.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t write about you,” I say. “I promised myself I wouldn’t write about our love. But our story…” I touch his freckled cheek with the back of my knuckles, still smooth and clean for me. “Our story was the most tragic, filled with beauty and chaos, I just…I need to know how it ends. It has to end. Now. I need it to end.”
“I need to write. I need you to end. All of you…on me. With me. Inside of me. I need it. I fucking need it!” I shout. But those last words weren’t mine. My lips, its lips, curl back in a grin.
Before I can speak further, I feel the beast beside me slither its claws into my body and pierce into my bones. My eyes roll back into my skull, my sight now covered in ink, complete darkness. I feel my arm raise the knife above his naked chest, and I’m falling, swallowed by a cold, ominous abyss in the being’s eye. Spiders fill my mouth and choke me, crawling down my throat, their poison and fangs feasting my blood.
Claws rip into my husband’s flesh and begins to eat, and I mutilate his torso and limbs, his blood spraying my cheeks and fur, meat splashing across white tiles and walls.
I laugh and laugh, and it laughs as spider sacs fill my belly, licking its sharp canines and delicious bleeding gums.
Yes.
Yes!
Our story is here.
