Page 5 of Delicious

It’s because he physically can’t.

I want to look away.

Ineedto look away, and I know that. But my eyes are glued to the stark scene as my phone falls from his hand, landing mercilessly face-down on the ground so the light from it shows me the garish scene in front of me.

The only mercy is that most of the color is bleached from the world, so much so that it looks like a black and white movie in front of me. But that only helps a little. And it doesn’t help mewhen he starts to beg. One hand comes up, as if he’s reaching toward the other man, only for one dirty sneaker to kick him down onto his back, where the man hastily climbs onto his elbows to babble and beg.

I swear he asks for the man to kill me again. But I can’t hear well enough to say for sure. His words combine with the roaring in my ears, and when the man lifts the chainsaw to pull the cord, I beg myself to do the one thing he asked.

Look away.

He looks so comfortable with the weapon. Like he’s been using it forever. Like it’s an extension of him, instead of something I know is heavy as hell.

He has to pull the cord twice for it to catch, and my fingers dig into the ground at my sides, palms burning against the dirt.

Please, God, Saylor. Look the fuck away.

He revs it once. Twice. The man is speaking again, but all I can see is his wide eyes, and the way he tries for a few seconds to crawl away.

But he doesn’t make it far.

How could he?

The man with the chainsaw thrusts it downward, the loud weapon driving straight into his chest. Blood pours from the wound, and this time I can clearly hear the man on the ground.

I hear his screams.

I hear the high-pitched wailing when he jolts; and even as the blood sprays upward, staining the jeans and shirt of the man above him, he continues to scream.

He screams until the chainsaw slices messily against his throat—cutting off his ability to make noise—in a spray of arterial blood that arcs across the ground, nearly reaching me.

But the man with the chainsaw never looks particularly put out, or even interested. He just finishes what he’s doing, and asthe noise from the motor dies, he lets the chainsaw fall to his side, bumping against his leg once it’s well and truly off.

I still can’t look away. My eyes feel glued open, and I can feel myself shaking where I sit. But my eyes slide upward, no longer on the dead or dying man, but on the one standing over top of him, still as the surrounding night.

Until he picks up my phone from the ground with a sigh and turns, his face in the light long enough for me to see his eyes find mine. “You shouldn’t have watched. I know the sound would’ve been atrocious either way. And I would’ve done something for you if we’d had time.” Casually, like it’s just another day in the preserve, the man comes to kneel in front of me, the chainsaw on the ground beside us.

It pulls my gaze, the bloody blade shining in the white light from my phone. Now it’s this I can’t look away from, and a disgustingly morbid part of me can’t help but try to imagine what it had felt like to cut into a man’s chest.

And now I’m next.

“I…” I don’t know what to say. Begging for him not to hurt me seems stupid at this point. The idea of begging for him to make it quick makes my mouth taste bitter and burnt. I don’t want to die. But I really don’t want to die screaming like the man whose body steams on the ground. “I just…” God, I need to find something better to say. Especially with this man, thismurdereron the ground in front of me.

“He deserved it.” To my astonishment, the man sits all the way down, my phone still in his hands between us to illuminate our faces harshly. He crosses his legs under him, his too-blue eyes on mine. “He deserved it more than you could possibly understand.”

“No one deserves that,” I hear myself whispering, when I know I should just agree with him. “That was terrible. It was brutal.”

“It was necessary. And better than he deserved.” The man isn’t at all put out by my trepidation, nor does he look away. “You said your name was Saylor.” It isn’t a question, but he tilts his head like it is. “I’m Jed Shaw.”

“Why are you…” I should just shut up and agree with him. I know that for certain. My fingers play with the loose strings of my shoes, and I can’t look away from his eyes. “Why are you being nice to me? Aren’t you going to—” I can’t finish the sentence, but my eyes betray me, darting towards the bloody chainsaw beside us.

“Have you done something to deserve me doingthat”—he nods his head toward the other man—“to you?”

Quickly, I shake my head, both honest and terrified. “Then don’t worry about it, Saylor. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Hope soars in my chest, and I clutch at my shoelaces like a terrified child. “So I can leave?”

“Do you know the way back?” It’s not quite an answer…but it isn’t ano.The hope bubbles up my throat, and sudden energy courses through my body at the prospect of escape and calling the police. I just need to play along, just for a few more minutes.

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