Page 20 of Grave Love
With Ren, it’s slightly different. She’s not going into the shipping containers like the others, but I still have plans for her.
I want to keep her like a pet. A good little toy, ready to be used. My corpse doll.
I add my knives, my gun, the rope, the duct tape, and the rest of the metal instruments to the collection. There are so many options for us. So many ways for me to play with her. I’m going to condition her to come for me, exactly at the time I want, and then I’m going to kill her.
Ren wants to die mid-orgasm?
I can give her that.
Chapter9
Ren
In the morning,my head pounds. Sunlight blinds me from the open window. I’m almost positive that I kept it closed on purpose as ifthatwould keep Blaze out.
Maybe I left it open like I always do. I don’t know.
I stare at the ceiling as Blaze’s words repeat in my mind:If I don’t kill you by the time you turn twenty-six, I’ll give you barbiturates.
The way he said it was simple. A deal. My end, for his pleasure. We both win.
Until that fateful day—his voice vibrates inside of me—we’ll use our time to tease that masochistic pleasure out of you. Force you to face death.
A chill runs down my spine. He sees me. Knows what I want. And he wants that from me too.
He’s been watching me, and I never knew he was there.
In the walls, the pipes stretch with hot water, their groans vibrating through the walls. Shortly after, an electric toothbrush hums. The tea kettle clatters against the stove. Then the front door slams shut.
I don’t move.
At nine a.m., I call in sick. Denise covers up her annoyance with sympathy, like she usually does. It must be a huge pain in the ass since our embalmer is still out.
There’s no way I could do anything today. Not with him on my mind.
Blaze. A fire incinerating any chance at a normal thought. My savior, and my killer.
It’s like he thinks he’s an executioner, performing a civilian task, eliminating a lost soul. Giving a mortal like me freedom in the afterlife.
No—he’s avillain.A demon in human form. He admitted to murders. To killing women. Women like me.
That’snotnormal, and either way, I don’t believe him. I refuse. He’s messing with me, using my own desires against me.
Maybe I’m not normal either. People don’t masturbate in crematories. They don’t put on clothes of the dead, and they definitely don’tconsideran offer of suicidal assistance from a self-proclaimed killer.
Eventually, I drive. Going past Last Spring. Searching for something, though I’m not sure what. My eyes glance over the building, over the gardens, over the cemetery, not daring to see anyone inside. Afraid to see him. To know what his existence means.
And it’s then that I know: I’m looking for evidence of last night. Proof of Blaze. As much as I try to deny it, I want to know that last night was real.
When I blink, I’m parked in front of the medical spa, Eternal Hope.
Medical assistance in dying is illegal in Florida, but that doesn’t mean it’s nonexistent. I’ve looked it up before; knowing the right people or the correct terminology can get you the death you want. As far as I can tell, if you say you’re terminal—and you have the paperwork to prove it—then in their minds, they have enough guilt-free permission to indulge in their own righteous proclivities.
I see through it, though. The doctors may be more professional, but they are just as heartless as Blaze.
Suddenly, I’m in the waiting room. A painting of a pink lotus flower hangs on the wall, and a small, tranquil water fountain trickles in the corner. The receptionist peers up from her desk and smiles, as if she’s been waiting for me.
It’s all so fake.
