Page 7 of Grave Love
Maybe I want to sleep.
But right now, I don’t want to wake up.
Chapter3
Blaze
It’s almostas if she’s taken by mental consumption, wasting away each day. Each night. Each pill. Each gulp of wine. Eachbreath.While she doesn’t go to the funeral home to indulge in self-care every night, sheneedsthe pills to sleep. The assistance of their calming warmth. Their sweet embrace.
I could tease Ren with my knowledge of her secret craving, but I don’t approach her. Not yet. I need to learn everything about her so that I can extract exactly what I want from her body.
So I hunt. Like I did to steal from my mother’sspecialfriends. The same way I hunted my second and my third. When you learn someone,trulylearn them, you begin to know every place they feel safe. Where they store their money. Where they go when they need something. Who they run to for help.
With Ren, it’s exceptionally easy to blend in. Stupidly, in fact. She’s practicallyinvitingme. Even after she finally saw me outside and was clearly disturbed by my presence, she’s found a way to pretend I don’t exist. I’m always just outside of the line of sight. She refuses to see me holding the knife at the edge of her periphery, too busy with her own morbid thoughts.
She reminds me of my first. So caught up in her own fucked up little world that she can barely recognize the decay around her.
Usually, you expect those chaotic, disturbed souls to not give a shit about the people around them. They find the nearest person, give that person their wrath, and then they do the bare minimum to survive.
Ren is like that insomeways. She functions, then fills her nights with chaos and error. She’s unpredictable in her masturbatory ways. Her desire togetcaught. But then, there’s her difference: it’s as if she’s taking out those aggressions on herself.
In the first week, I copy her work schedule and read over her driving record: two old tickets for running red lights. Another sign of her recklessness.
During the second week, I research the grandmother: Donna Richmond. Private elementary school owner and principal. Mother of a dead daughter. Caretaker to her only granddaughter: little Ren.
A quick internet search gives me a picture of Ren, her yellow-haired grandmother, and the dean of a university in Tallahassee, the details of Ren’s acceptance into the doctorate program in the caption underneath. The article boasts that it’s an honor to have the granddaughter of such an esteemed educator, and as such, the grandmother and dean beam with pride. Ren’s expression is void though. Smiling but empty.
The university’s website shows no official record of Ren’s graduation.
When I’m sure I know Ren’s patterns like the flakes of dry skin on my arm, I wait until Ren leaves for the mortuary. I sneak in through her bedroom window, my boots thudding on the carpeted floor. A nearly empty wine bottle stands erect on the nightstand, the last thing Ren sees when she falls asleep. A new pill bottle next to it.
I lie on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling like Ren waiting for sleep. It’s endless stucco, like the imprints of raindrops on a sandy white beach. I try to imagine Ren’s thoughts. Get inside her head. What she must think when she lies here at night, sober and alone. Dreaming of something else. Dying by the hands of another. The saccharine ecstasy of death.
A snore like a groaning bear shakes through the walls, then falls silent. The grandmother.
I sniff the sheets, sucking in Ren’s mildly sweet, ashy scent. Like an orange cake, the edges burnt, left in the oven until it’s too dry to eat. I unzip my pants, then grip my dry cock, the friction of my rough palm tantalizing. Soon, I’ll use it to keep her obedient, but for now, I stare at the ceiling, jerking off to what she sees, to what she mustfeel—
The hum of a car approaches; she’s back sooner than usual tonight. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, the anticipation like magnetic balls bouncing off of my skin.
I slide into the hallway. Avoid the bathroom. Open the closet door. Find enough space between the washer and dryer to stay out of sight and watch her.
If Ren goes anywhere, she’ll probably use the toilet before going to bed. Hiding this close to the bathroom, I’m practically begging her to find me.
Her shadow hovers. Stops near the slats. She studies the laundry closet, peering into the darkness. Perhaps she can sense my presence here.
I dare you, little corpse.
Her hushed footsteps angle toward the bedroom. The door clicks shut behind her. I can imagine it now; she thinks she’s imagined it all. Not even a potential intruder can bother Ren from her vacant existence.
Once I’m sure she’s asleep, I gently open Ren’s bedroom door. The window casts light onto the desk in the corner, illuminating a handwritten note.
I added a late fee,it reads.You should put the tuition payments on auto-draft, like I told you last time. PLEASE DO THE LAUNDRY. THANK YOU.
An envelope labeledMrs. Richmondsits next to the note, full of cash.
Tuition payments. A late fee. Ren must be paying back her grandmother for the doctorate program. The choice of words—pleaseandthank you—is amusing, like the grandmother thinks she can dispel any hard feelings by spitting out those polite platitudes.
A loud snort erupts through the walls, like a guard dog startling itself awake. The grandmother again.
