Page 41 of Beneath the Dirt

My fingers act before I can think or stop it. Yanking at the necklace, breaking the chain. It falls off her neck and into my possession as I rise to my feet.

Now hovering over her, I slip the necklace carrying our pendants in my pocket. An inescapable grin smears on my face thinking of how pissed she’ll be when she wakes up realizing they’re missing.

I bend at the waist, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

Fuck.

Cinnamon and pumpkins… that signature scent again, although this time it’s mixed with an overpowering stench of desperation.

I lower my mouth to her ear, knowing that her subconscious will do the legwork. Recalling everything I’m about to say to her and relay the message when she comes to. Taunting her with my presence. Reminding her how close she was to having me—and my cock—but also how I just left her here tonight with scraps of me.

“Stop running from me. Come home to me. I’ve been lonely waiting for you. I promise I won’t bite.”

But I can’t promise it won’t hurt when you see me again.

Twelve

The next day…

“Stay still, you fucking bitch!”The harsh cement floor digs into my knees, scratching at my flattened palms as I flatten my back. Remaining still like a fucking dog or in this case a human ash tray. “Just like that.”

Despite wanting to spring up and stab the motherfucker with the knife I brought with me, I flatten my back and hold still. Not out of respect or fear, but out of convenience. If I obey by playing along one last time, he’ll be convinced that it’s because I’ve finally conceded. He’ll never see what I have planned for him the second my opportunity strikes.

Smoke coils around me, notes of tobacco and menthol drench the air. The smell turns my stomach, but it’s the motivator I need. The reminder of why I’m here and what I need and will do this time.

“You burn like a sinner,” the delusional man observes, digging the tip of his cigarette into the nape of my neck.

A shiver runs down my spine. It hurts, but not as much as the knife I tucked in my boot. It’s in there loosely so I can gain easy access to it when needed, but its positioning by my Achilles and is close to slicing it if I don’t hurry the fuck up.

“You hear me, pecadora?”

Sinner.

I mumble a half-assed ‘yes’ but the questions continue. I tune them out. My focus glued to the sliver of steel beckoning me to grab the handle and end this.

“I wonder if I can fuck the sinner out of you?”

The ‘again’ part is left out. It always is. Delusional fuck. Every time I’m down here, it’s under the guise of it being the first time. Every time it’s the same. The same torture, the same pain, always the fucking same. What won’t be the same this time is what I do next.

“Stand up!”

My heart rate elevates, driving my pulse to my ears. I ignore the command. Adrenaline taking over every cell as I rehearse the scene in my head of what I’m about to do.

“You’re going to pay for the lies you’ve spread, you whore. You’re going to pay for what you’ve done.” Another set of hollow words do little to affect me. I wait until the belt buckle jingles and it's tossed on the floor for me to make my move. Time slows as I spring up, retrieving the knife.

“Fuck you,” I spew, charging the monster dressed in human flesh. With a clenched fist and my eye on the prize, I break the barrier of skin concealing his vital artery. Blood spills down his neck, slowly. Too slow for my liking. I need more. I need him to suffer more. I tear the blade from inside him and stab again…and again…and again. With every strike, I scream ‘fuck you’ louder and angrier. Reveling in the blood splatter painting my skin, the floor, and most importantly—him. To my surprise, he doesn’t put up a fight. Then again, when the first place you’ve stabbed is the carotid, the brain connection starts to get a bit fuzzy.

He falls to the floor. A loud, messy pool of pierced flesh and crimson.

Breathless, I try to collect myself. My work isn’t done yet, it’s just beginning. Staring at the bloodbath before me, I try figuring out what will be the easiest way to gather the blood to fill the tubupstairs. A large bucket catches my attention, as does the broom in the corner of the basement. I gather both because it’s time to collect. El Barquero should be here any minute, and if I don’t hurry, I’ll miss my opportunity to join him.

Using a mop, I maneuver the blood of the sacrifice into the bucket, filling it up to the brim, and then walking the overflowing bucket to the bathroom to pour into the tub. Time passes, unaware of how long this process takes, but with each step closer, I hear a voice in my head, trying to throw me off guard.

“It’s not too late, hija, you can change your mind.” The voice now morphs into my mother’s, taunting me as I drag the overflowing bucket to the bathroom.

“No, I can’t.” I won’t.

Adrenaline continues to fuel me, but only until I make it upstairs to the bathroom. I feel the crash coming. I need to push through only a few moments more. Dropping the bucket, I use both hands to open the door. The hinges fight me tooth and nail, but my stubbornness prevails, determined to win. To finish what I came here for.

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