Page 11 of Caution Tape

The urges are getting worse, but for now… I’m still in control. I have time to hone myself into something lethal and discreet. One furious afternoon of biting suburban shoppers is not worth a lifetime in prison.

I walk away briskly, refusing to look back.

On the way out, one of the cashiers asks me if I found everything I was looking for.

I open my mouth to say something nice. Something witty and forgettable, anything to oil what keeps the machine of civil society moving.

Instead, I gnash my teeth and hiss at her, before running out the door into the cold, dark night. The look on her face strikes me as hilarious as I start up my car and drive away, my eyes scanning the road frantically, hoping for another deer.

Chapter Six

Nolan

It is the third hour of men in armor and tree-things fighting each other, and somehow there is yet another movie in this trilogy to watch. My sense of people-pleasing has backfired; I had casually suggested a Lord of the Rings marathon to Natalie just to make her happy. I didn’t know they were this long.

I’m having a bad day.

I’ve observed others having bad days. They drop their keys. Spill their coffee. They blow a tire, or their significant other does something that upsets them. The day is ruined, soured, and they bumble through it like grumpy children.

My bad days start at the center of my forehead, somewhere deep in my brain. A dull ache, like a hunger headache, that slowly slides down and lurks just behind my eyes, pulsing and gnawing.

“Migraines,” the doctor called them.

“Migraines,” I tell people.

But I know it is something more.

It settles in and makes the world appear a few shades darker. People become distant, shadowy things that I simply don’t understand. I seethe with quiet rage and feel disgust at everything living. I consider the fabric of my life and long to tear it apart. Fine, fuck it, blow up the mirage and let the world see the terrible things I want to do to it.

On screen, an elf is talking to a dwarf.

Natalie is next to me on the couch, her bare legs draped over my lap. She is mouthing the lines as the actors speak them.

My hand is on her shin, rubbing it absently. There’s a slight dent in the bone, about halfway up. I keep rubbing it with my thumb. Natalie glances at me and smiles, wiggling her toes.

“High school soccer. Accidentally kicked the goal post, broke it, that’s the dent.”

I smile back.

What if you bite her as hard as you can?

Sink your teeth into the bone. See if your canine teeth will fit in the dent.

Do it, do it, do it.

Leaning down, I kiss her shin gently. “Cute.”

Her body vibrates with adoration. But she doesn’t reveal it. I have felt her growing more and more attached to me. Every time I remember a little thing about her and mention it again. Every time I kiss some small part of her. Every thoughtful, carefully crafted word is like adhesive, gluing her to me.

She reaches out and grasps my hand briefly. “This is nice,” she murmurs, turning back to the TV. “This issonice.”

I’m thinking of a scene from a horror movie. A woman with a shotgun brutally executes the people who tortured her, and my mind fixates on how the blood painted the wall after each shot.

“So nice,” I repeat.

I manage to get away by offering to go get snacks before we watch the next movie. She groans in mock-ecstasy.

“Why are you thebest?”

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