Page 26 of Grave Love
“How do you dream of dying?” he asks.
I flick my thumbs over the tattoos on the top of each hand. As long as my neck didn’t break, a noose would make those last minutes count. I would beforcedto feel something. The will to fight. To resist.
That answer seems too private.
“I didn’t know this was an interview,” I mock.
“It’ll make your death more fun for me,” he drawls.
I cock my head to the side. The blinds over the window are open, and the parking lot beyond the glass is empty. Any car that drives past will have no idea that we’re in here.
“A gun,” I say.
“There’s no art in a gunshot, love,” he says.
I widen my eyes, facing him. “It’s instantaneous,” I argue. “You can’t fight it. A gun to my head while I’m being fucked? That’s something. It’s—”
“Why do you want to die?” he asks, cutting me off. His tone is matter-of-fact, as if he’s asking why the sky is blue.
I finish the champagne, my stomach grumbling in response.
I should stop now.
He hands me another glass. I down that too. I don’t answer his question; I don’t owe him an answer. Instead, I unlock the door of the retort. The oven’s cavern is empty, scattered with dust flecks from the previous bodies. There’s no way you can truly clean an oven like that. It doesn’t matter what you do; we always leave a part of ourselves behind.
“Because life is meaningless,” I finally mutter.
“Why isyourlife meaningless?”
My throat swells, my temple pulsing. Why does he keep asking me questions? It’s not like he actually wants to know.
“Why do you like killing women?” I snort.
He pauses, then spreads his legs, relaxing into his thoughts. His fingers rub at the bottom of his jaw as if he’s actually considering the question.
“Possession,” he says.
The word sends a shiver down my spine. It’s authoritative. Like he knows that he owns me.
“You want to possess them?” I ask hesitantly.You want to possess me?
“No one else gets to kill them. Only me,” he says.
Only me.
The way he phrases it is almost like he’s claiming someone’s virginity or a person’s hand in marriage. In reality, he’s claiming someone’s freedom so wholeheartedly that they won’t be able to decide anything ever again.
Thereispower in that.
Eternal Hope flashes through my mind. The blank walls. The generic pictures of flowers. The babbling electric fountain. There’s an emptiness in the medical spa that is both familiar and distant.
Blaze isn’t like that. Whatever this is, it’s deeper than a doctor and a patient. He’s not just caring for my life. He’ll be caring for my death too, in whatever wayhethinks is best.
“It’s sexual, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Did you read that online?”
“Possessionissexual.”
