Page 7 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

“Remember me?” His voice is veiled in darkness. I feel his grip tighten around me, and I’m sure he feels consumed with power. I bet he feels like he’s in control, a strong, unstoppable man.

And I’m just his prey. A loose end that needs to be tied up.

I blink, tilting my head a bit to avoid the smell of his rank breath. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

Confusion knits his brows together, and I take that as my opening. I press the button along the side of the knife, feeling the blade break from its hold, and before he can do more than blink, I slide the edge across the front of his throat.

Skin meets metal, and I feel it melt along the sharp edge, peeling apart and opening a waterfall of red liquid. It seeps from the gash, covering the front of my body. It soaks through my dress, paints my neck, and its warmth makes my body hum.

Power drowns me, pours over me like liquid gold and stains my fingers and mouth. It swallows me, and all I want is more, greedy for how it tastes on my tongue. Power curls along my veins and takes over. I feel it thrumming in my bones, aching.

All the keys inside of me click and slide into place, as if my mind and body have finally merged into agreeance. It’s in this moment, as I drown in a man’s blood, that I accept myself for all the horrible things I’d once feared.

Death and decay. Lover of the macabre. A killer.

All the blood seems to send me to a different place. Lyra is safely tucked away in the closet of my mind while something else entirely takes over.

My mouth pulls into a smile as his eyes widen. Terrified hands grapple to stop the bleeding, and I watch him panic. A fly caught in a web, struggling for life, unknowingly walking himself straight into the hands of death.

It fuels my pride, my ego, watching him break apart, knowing his entire life is at the hands of my misery. I’m the last thing he gets to see before he dwindles into nothing. My face will haunt his spirit in every life. The girl he couldn’t kill, the girl who’d eaten his control and spat it out at his feet.

He was due to pay, and the price had been his life.

I stay quiet, seeing the light dim in his eyes. Color drains from his face, and he chokes, gurgling some form of a plea. Blood continues to leak, a spout with no end. A bath of vengeance. A crimson meal for the depraved rage inside of me.

It dawns on me that he will be the first of many, the dominion at the front of the line, and I will not stop until all those guilty pay for what they did. What they took from me.

I inhale the deep metallic scent, feeling his body go lax against mine. The dreaded realization that there is a dead body on top of mine starts to settle in. I wait for the guilt to follow.

But it never comes.

There is only a profound relief and my adrenaline slamming into my bloodstream.

The knife falls to the floorboards, and I now have to figure out a way to get rid of his body, knowing I can’t leave him in the parking lot of a grocery store. With more struggle than I’d like to admit, I press my hands into his chest and move our bodies so that I’m able to slip out of the back seat.

Once I’m standing, staring at the mess I’ve made for myself, I almost want the panic to set in. Some sort of emotion other than dull numbness, but nothing ever hits me.

Maybe because of all the things Thatcher had taught me, or maybe because I have nothing left to lose. What’s my freedom if he’s not a part of it?

The majority of Player One’s body is sagging against my leather seats, but his feet dangle off the edge, reminding me of the witch fromThe Wizard of Ozwhen the house fell on her.

I glance around the empty parking lot before grabbing his booted feet and shoving him further into the car, tucking his knees at the chest so that his large frame fits.

When I slide into the front seat, I look at my painted hands. The blood is still sticky and clings to the steering wheel. I make a mental note to bleach the inside of this tomorrow.

I move on autopilot, starting the engine, making my way back home, all the while being keenly aware of the dead body crammed inside the back. Maybe tomorrow, when the adrenaline has faded and reality sets in, I’ll feel guilty. I’ll feel scared or panicked.

Until that happens, I’ll use this new sense of calm to get rid of the body.

The snow has turned to rain, splashing against my windshield as I pull into my driveway. The tangy smell of death is knocked out of me as I push the door open, inhaling a deep breath of cold air.

The icy rain pours down as thunder rumbles in the sky.

My plan hadn’t run further than getting him here. Now comes the issue of what I’m going to do with the body. Burn it? No, it’s too wet outside. Acid? Don’t have any.

I could, however, bury him. My backyard is already torn up from renovations and my pathetic attempts at trying to start a garden. If anyone asks questions, it would be easy to play off disturbed ground as home maintenance.

It’s the only option I have, and there’s no one else with a better idea.

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