Page 62 of Grave Love
The fucker babbles, wheezing one last time, and I stroke the top of his head with a bloody hand, pretending he’s her.
Soon, my love,I think.Soon, my sweet little corpse.I don’t know what I’m promising, or why I want to give it to her. But right now, everything I have is for her.
A water bottle—probably the same one from the night with Ren—catches my eye. I jump off of Arnold and grab it, then dump out the rest of the contents. I scoop an arm underneath his shoulders, propping him up, then I hold the bottle to his stomach and fill it with blood and small chunks of flesh. The red liquid warms the plastic, and my hips pulse, considering all the possibilities. The ways I can use it to get off.
Power surges inside of me. It’shisblood.
I cap the bottle, then use the extra blood on my palms to fuck myself. Red stains cover my pants, my dick hard as a rock. The blood is warm, like Ren’s cunt. Like safety. Like knowing that I’m the last thing she’ll ever need.
I come quickly, ejaculating on his corpse. Then the post-orgasm clarity comes to me, catching in my throat.
I’ve masturbated with blood before. I’ve even ejaculated on a corpse. I’ve done so many fucked up things that would make a “normal” person wretch in disgust.
But I’ve never killed a man before.
Then, I realize I collected his bloodfor her.
Ren. The woman who was supposed to be my fourth.
I hold the bottle to my chest. It cools, adjusting to the late winter air. The fact that I killedsomeoneshould comfort me. It’s not enough though.
I wantmore.
I drag the body inside, using the exposed beams in the house to hang it by the ankles so that I can properly drain it.
I don’t let myself think about how much time I’ve already invested in Ren, nor do I think about how she should be dead already, how I should be moving onto my next victim. Shit, it’s not going to be easy testing the blood to make sure it’s safe for her, but Brody will have what I need, and he’s too much of a chicken shit to ask questions.
There’s the problem with the body too. I can bury it here, like I originally intended, with my mother.
But that doesn’t appeal to me anymore.
The best option is to show my little corpse how much she’s taught me.
Chapter23
Ren
Hunger cinches my stomach.A rice bowl with teriyaki flank steak sits on the second shelf of the fridge,Renwritten in black ink on the plastic wrap. I blink at it as if my name will disappear once my eyes focus. Mrs. Richmond never saves me leftovers.
Is this guilt? Does she feel bad about what Blaze said?
About whatIsaid?
I try not to think about it. Understanding her motivations won’t change what she thinks of me, and right now, I’mreallyhungry. I heat up the bowl in the microwave, then stand with the bowl burning my hands. It used to be my favorite meal. Supposedly it was my mother’s too, something my father made for her once. Right now, I don’t feel loss or sorrow though. There’s something else inside of me, crawling up to the surface.
I picture Blaze sitting at the dinner table, eating the rice bowl.It’s okay,he’d say dismissively. Knowing him, if I cooked it, he’d finish every bite to prove it to me that he could endure it.
And if my grandmother cooked it, he’d probably throw it in her face.
I glance at my phone. It’s evening. Mrs. Richmond still isn’t home.
It’s been a long time since I’ve gone to the mortuary after hours by myself. I haven’t needed it. Blaze and I have sex there, but I don’t crave going by myself anymore. It’s like Blaze has changed my habits. My way of thinking.
I sit at the dinner table, openly inviting Mrs. Richmond to walk into the house. To see me there. To join me. I used to dream of her finding me dead in her kitchen. To have that pain fill her. To force her to acknowledge the anguish I kept locked inside of me.
But I have this feeling that Mrs. Richmond would sweep me away like she did with my mother.
Once I finish the rice bowl, I scan the fridge for more food. I take a bite of watermelon. A pickle slice. I even open one of the sweet tea bottles Mrs. Richmond loves so much. For years, food has been nothing more than sustenance, but it’s like drinking that bottle of water outside of the grave in Blountstown ignited something inside of me. I savor everything, letting the cold tea run over my tongue, the slimy pickled cucumber wiggle against my cheek, the watermelon crush under my teeth. I’m supposed to die soon, and maybe that’s why my insides crave to experience everything and anything rightnow.Good. Bad. Ugly. Beautiful. All of it. Every bite. Every drink. Even every gulp of fresh air is like the best I’ve ever had.
