Foreword

Thrall by Christinna Viruet

Promises by Marta Salek

LI by Mark McAuliffe

Anniversary by Tim Jeffreys

Cold Shock by Kit Power

Angie's Change by Deb Eskie

Till Death Do Us Part by Sean Douglas

Companionable As Solitude by Lisamarie Lamb

Cadavres de Desir by T. Fox Dunham

 FOREWORD

First and foremost, thank you for reading this book.

Regardless of whether you purchased it or if it was a
gift, thank you for giving this collection of stories your time.
My intention in collecting this collection of stories was to
provide some reading material for people that weren’t
interested in celebrating Valentine’s Day.
At least not in the traditional manner.
Instead of giving people flowers and candy, I wanted to
give everyone the gift of heartache and grief. Maybe this
way some people would know that being alone on a day
that is designated for celebrating having a significant other
and happy endings can be just as satisfying as being with
someone else.
When I posted the call I asked for “stories about love
and loss, life and death, or something so depressing it will
make our hard luck stories read like love songs.”
I received an overwhelming amount of excellent
submissions and it was difficult to pick those which would
best exemplify the theme for which I was striving.
All of the stories contained herein were a pleasure to
read and I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I did.
Hold onto your hearts.
This one’s going to hurt.
Thrall by Christinna Viruet

Today is our ten-year anniversary. I have been

looking forward to this day for eight years. Eight
years ago Isabel made me a promise. I had only truly
believed it years later, when I came to realize she
always kept her word. At first when she made me the
promise, I only pretended to be happy. What kind of
a promise could she make? Isabel is my insatiable,
wrathful, beauty and tyrant. Over the years I learned
that she never lied to me, even when I wished it.
Sometimes, when you see the blade coming for your
flesh, you want comfort. Even if comfort comes from
the one wielding the blade, you believe it just long
enough. You want them to look into your eyes and
say, “This won’t hurt a bit,” so your mind can stop it’s
racing for a fraction of a second. Isabel did not offer
false hope. Why should she? She was never at the
pointy end, and she was not one to empathize with
others.
For our special night, Isabel laid out my kilt. She
loved when I wore it. I had never worn a kilt before I
became hers. She loved the easy access a kilt
allowed. This meant my thick legs had marks that
could easily fool anyone into thinking I fought tigers.
The scars were thick and had become a form of
armor. A small crescent shaped scar on my knee
was a favorite of Isabel’s. She always afforded it a
tender kiss. Thinking of the scar and her rare
tenderness made my heart heavy. Ten years had
come too soon.
I dressed quickly and began making my checks
around the house. Everything had to be perfect.
Hearing Isabel remark on the cleanliness and beauty
of her bailiwick gave me a feeling of accomplishment.
It is hard for me to imagine the time not so long ago
when I led small rebellions. A streaky mirror, a shoe
on the floor, these were my pathetic little rebellions.
At first the punishments were severe, then one day
she responded by ignoring me. At first I was relieved.
After a day had passed I found myself bursting with
guilt and desperate for attention. I begged for her
scorn, lust, and her hatred. I admitted to myself then
that she knew me better than I knew myself. Up until
that point I believed that I still missed my freedom.
But I knew that I was truly home for the first time, and
I did not want to leave.
The last thing to check was the mail. The mailbox
was at the end of the long driveway, and for a time I
longed for the freedom to walk outside. Now I did it
without even thinking of running to the road. The
dogs trusted me too. I will never understand what
communication happened between Isabel and her
protective beasts. When Isabel knew that I no longer
wished to leave, the dogs knew. They followed me
gingerly to the mailbox and back, without snarling or
barking if I took a step to far.

Dressed, in a clean house, with the mail waiting in

its spot on the table, all that was left now was to wait.
Winter was coming to an end, so the days no longer
ended promptly at five. Spring was nearly officially
here, and I had longer to wait for my Isabel. As the
sun set, I thought back to the night that my life began.
I was a professor in a community college, teaching
art history and barely surviving. The spring semester
had just started and I was getting ready to teach a
late Thursday class. I had not noticed Isabel in the
back of the class. Three weeks went by and I had
noticed her more and more as she became involved
in class discussion. She was not particularly beautiful
to me at that time, but one look into her eyes would
change that. She had followed me out of the
classroom and asked me a question. “Have you ever
been to The Louvre?” That was the question, but the
question was not the important part, she held me in
her gaze. I woke up in a small basement room, with a
headache. The small window let me know it was day,
but the bars on either side made it clear to me there
was no way out. Here I am ten years later, and the
room has been used for storage for nearly eight
years. I hate to think that soon it will become a cell
again.
I heard the light footsteps from the back bedroom
coming toward the kitchen. I got up quickly and
stared at the hall, waiting to see her. She stopped in
the doorway, a faint smile appeared on her face.
“Can I get you something?” I asked. She had
dropped her chin and was looking at the floor. I
walked cautiously to her and lifted her face. When
our eyes met I could see a deep sadness I had never
seen in her dark green eyes. She was going to keep
her promise. “I love you, Ren.” I smiled. Never had I
expected such sweet words from my fierce hunter.
She had done little things here and there to express
her feelings, but she had never put it into words. I felt
full and complete. For a decade I worked to satisfy
this creature before me, and now I knew that I had
done it. She was a slave to me as much as I was to
her. She needed me and loved me as much as I
needed and loved her. But she could not allow
anyone to hold such control over her emotions. Now
that I knew I had such control, the end was nigh. She
held my face and looked deep into my eyes, “You
know I always keep my word,” she said. I tilted my
head and closed my eyes. Soon I would truly satiate
the love of my life, and she would keep the most
difficult promise she had ever made. Although I was
not sure that I was ready to be released from my
duties, I knew that this was the greatest act of love
she had ever and would ever do in her long life. I felt
a pinch on my neck. As my life flowed into her, I saw
the moment she made me her promise.

I had been locked in my cell for months, beaten,

drained and confused. At times Isabel was easy to
please, just some conversation and doing what she
asked was enough. Other times she was out to break
me and I wavered between obedience and rebellion.
On the night that she promised me a release in ten
years, I had begged her to kill me. I couldn’t take
anymore and I couldn’t understand my own feelings. I
hated the happiness I felt when I pleased her, I hated
the desire I felt for her and I no longer wanted to be
her prisoner. She made me a promise to make things
easier for me to accept. “Ren, I will make you a
promise. If you stop fighting this, and accept that you
are mine, and that you will serve me, I will release you
in ten years time.” I laughed, “Release me how?” I
asked. Isabel smiled and said “I will release you from
this life and I will give you the chance to truly satisfy
me.” I was more than happy with that, even though it
meant my death. Death was better at that time than
twenty years a servant to an immortal, bloodthirsty
mistress.
Now, I felt myself drifting away, as my hands
slowly dropped to my sides and Isabel drained me of
my lifeblood, I wished for ten more years.
 Christinna Viruet is a U.S. Army veteran, mother,
and wife who has enjoyed horror and telling scary
stories her whole life. After a long hiatus from writing
she has focused her efforts on doing the things she
loves. This includes writing, reading, watching horror
movies, and playing hockey. This is her first published
story and she hopes that there will be more in the
future.
Promises by Marta Salek

I buried you today.

I stood by your grave in my too-small suit and too-
starched shirt and the priest said words you never
gave a shit about.
They asked me to speak. I refused.
Others spoke instead. Your mother spoke about
the joy you'd brought into their lives and the sweet
things you said and the achievements you'd once, so
long ago, completed. Before my time.
Your sister spoke about the arguments you'd had
and the secrets you shared; the support you gave
each other when illness raged and children sickened
and partners drank relationships into the ground.
I wasn't the one who drank, but they glared at me
anyway.
So many of them spoke. Your friends and your
colleagues and those people that said they loved you.
They never came to your bedside when the cancers
danced inside you, and our daughter cried beside
you, and I stood at your feet and clenched my hands
behind my back and waited for a sign.
 That you loved me still. That I'd loved you ever.
The coffin was closed. If I had my way, you’d have
been cremated, but your mother waved her bible and
your sisters wrung their hands and I didn't have a
chance.
Not with them. Not with you.
Sweat-streaked handlers in sweat-streaked suits
lowered you into the ground. Women threw flowers.
Men threw soil. Everyone made sure to show their
tears.
I didn't shed a single one.
Our daughter did. She shed a skullful.
I dressed her for the occasion in her communion
dress with those cheap plastic shoes you brought her
and the silk roses I bought her and the necklace we
bought her together back when we did things
together.
Do you remember when you had her? You cursed
me for knocking you up and cursed the doctor for
delaying the drugs and cursed our daughter the most
for taking so long.
"Keep fucking pushing!" I said.
"Fuck you!" you said.
Your sweat was thick. Your hair was slick with it.
My fingers were, when I touched them to your brow.
I loved you that day, if on no other.
I certainly loved our daughter.
I wasn’t sure you did.
You got close. Tip-toed around the edges with
television shows and lollies and bows that you
sometimes tied in her hair.
You never got close enough with those absent
smiles, those whispers you didn't think she'd
understand, the harsh words and even harsher
hands.
How do I explain this to her? Did you ever think
about that when you sucked down those cancer sticks
and sipped on your liquor and didn't give up your night
job though I took on two of my own?
"Mummy's snoring," I whispered to her when she
held your hand under the hospital sheet and listened
to the breath catch in your throat.
"Mummy's dreaming," I told her when the drugs
didn't work and your stillness turned to spasms.
"Mummy's resting," I explained, when your face
turned cold. When your lips turned cold.
"Mummy's never coming back."
You said I wouldn't have to do this alone. You said
you'd always be here with me.
You promised.

I buried her today.

She said her head hurt. She said her heart hurt.
I held her fingers and stroked her hair the way I did
yours so many times, pillow drenched in sweat, hair
streaked with vomit, eyes lost in whatever wonderland
your injections found for you.

I made for her a little wonderland of her own.

It wasn't like yours. Hers was all forests silent with
snow and sleepy suns like buttercups and ribbons
made of roses for her hair.
Hers was bunny rabbits with fluffy tails and puppy
dogs with wrinkled noses and chocolate-chip
cupcakes with icing on top.
Hers was what yours should have been.
"Why are you crying, Daddy?" she asked.
"My eyes hurt," I said. "That's all."
But it wasn't.
Do you remember the day she first stood? I found
her by the television with a squint to her eyes and a
dimple in her cheek.
 She grinned at me. I grinned at her.
"Come quick," I yelled like the proud father that I
was, and you came with your hair half up and your
skirt unzipped and a stick of lipstick in your hand.
You yelled at her for the fingerprints she left on her
screen and yelled at me for interrupting your
preparations.
You threw the lipstick at a wall. It left a mark.
I hated you that day, if on no other.
She loved you that day. She fell and hit her head
and I kissed the bump and wiped her tears away and
tried to coax her to her feet again.
She sat for months.
She didn't smile for months.
The doctors said there was nothing wrong with
her. No sickness creeping through her blood, no
cancer spreading in her bones, no blood in her brain
and no bruises in her heart.
But she wouldn't eat.
They said as long as she was drinking, everything
was fine.
But she wouldn't drink.

They said as long as she was sleeping, nothing could

go wrong.
But she wouldn't sleep.
I checked on her fifteen times a night and she
was always staring at the door. Watching with eyes
as brown as yours, as serious as yours the night I got
drunk and asked for your hand.
The doctors said there was nothing wrong, but I
knew.
You always had trouble sleeping. Drugs do that to
you. Alcohol takes that from you. Cancer? That
takes everything from everyone.
I still had your pills. I hugged her close. I helped
her sleep.
She didn't drink, but she took one cup from me.
For me.

You said we'd keep her safe together. You said we

we'd never let her be in pain.
You promised.
You fucking left.

Perhaps they'll bury me today.

I've made it easy for them. The rain made it easy
for me. Made the ground soft for me. I guess the sun
spent itself the day you left, because it's been raining
ever since.
I used to say that the sky was crying but I don't say
that any more.
Now I think that it must be me that's crying.
Perhaps I'm up there already, with you and her
and those angels your mother believed in. With those
devils that chased you through your dreams. And
sometimes through mine.
The doctors think there's something wrong with
me.
They touch me with their stethoscopes and tap me
with their little hammers and shine their silly lights into
my eyes.
They ask me what I'm feeling. I tell them I feel
nothing. They say they don't believe me. I don't care
what they believe.
I just don't fucking care.
Your mother planted rose bushes on either side of
your tombstone. I protested. She insisted.
Today I ripped them out and ripped them to pieces
and ripped my hand to pieces, the way you ripped my
heart to pieces. With your words. With your
jealousies.
You always hated roses. You said that they stung
you. You said that they hated you.
Perhaps they did.
Can you feel me lying here on top of you? The
way you liked when the drugs made you high and the
drink made you low and the sleeping sound of your
daughter made you so melancholy.
You liked the weight of me, you said.
I liked you those days, I think. If on no others.
It's not raining tonight. There are stars above me
and perhaps if I reached out a hand I'd tug them to
me and wrest the wishes they promise into my life.
There's a moon out tonight and if I just reached out
my smile, perhaps it would give me one in return.
Like the ones I dreamed you gave me. Like those
ones you never let fly free.
There's an empty bottle of pills beside me. I hold
it in my hand and pretend I'm holding yours.
I close my eyes. The way she did. The way you
did.
"Till death do you part," the priest said. These
words you never gave a shit about.
But you said them.
You said we'd be together forever.
You said we'd be together longer.
You promised.
Let's see if you were right.
 Marta Salek writes dark urban speculative fiction.
Her short stories have been accepted by
semiprozines Aurealis SF&F and Perihelion SF.
One of her shorts was included in Tangent's 2013
Recommended Reading List and her first novel is due
out
later this year.
Catch her on http://martasalek.com.
LI by Mark McAuliffe

Stanley was already awake, lying rigid in bed,

waiting, when the alarm kicked off at 6:00AM, as it did
every morning.
The clock was one of those wind–up jobs. Two
shiny bells, with the little hammer on top, tripping
clang-a-lang-a-lang.
He sat up instantly, swinging his legs over the
side. With a practiced hand he ended the commotion.
Stan took slow, deep breaths, counting with each
exhalation.
One… two… three…
He had his feet together, toes clenching and
unclenching . He put his hands, palms down, upon
his bony knees.
Thirty-six… thirty-seven… thirty-eight…
When he had counted to seventy-two, he stood.
His slippers were a step to his left. He shuffled
into them, walked from bedroom to bathroom, stood
before the yawning porcelain.
He waited, dick in hand. He had patience. In time
a thin, punctuated stream was his reward. It was
bright yellow. His doctor may tell him those vitamins,
in their flashy bottles, were a waste of money, but
those flashier morning ads were not to be denied.
When he was done he washed his hands, counting
to fifty–six as he did, sparing quick, surreptitious
glances at the old man in the mirror. He dried his
hands, using the blue towel, then he washed them
again.
He walked to the kitchen. He wasn’t hungry but
that was hardly the point. It was, after all, the most
important meal of the day, as his beloved wife had
always insisted. One slice of toast, whole meal,
lightly buttered. He chewed slow, and counted. Next
came the high fiber cereal. He measured the milk
evenly, using the small glass jug he kept beside the
bread board. It tasted like soggy ashes, but what
could he do? Sugar was an unhealthy indulgence,
and sweetener, well, that was the way of the coward.
Fresh juice, to wash down his daily dose of pills.
He had squeezed the grapefruits the night before,
making sure to remove every pit. He drained the
glass, then winced, then shivered.
Finally he made tea, earl grey, drank it.
Then he said. “Done. Over.”
Stan walked into the living room. It was a small,
cramped place. He kept it scrupulously clean,
polished and dusted every day. White shag pile
carpet, once thick, now more than just a little thin in
many places. There was a fat, comfortable couch.
Some reupholstering here and there, but it was still
respectable. On the right was a glass cabinet, home
to a multitude of china figurines. The Beloved had
been an avid collector. It made for an exhausting,
time-consuming chore, all those nights awake, gently
cleaning each piece, putting them back just right, but
there was no question of it ever being removed.
And over by the far wall was the Shrine.
That wasn’t what Stan called it, but that’s what it
was, no doubt. He approached. It was crowded with
tangible memories of Her. Photos, from the year he
met her to the year before her passing, trinkets, items
of clothing, a lock of her hair, a handkerchief bearing
tiny spots of blood. Jewelry, coins, trinkets and knick
knacks. Sea shells from their honeymoon in Hawaii.
More and more…
All there. All laid out in obsessive detail.
His children didn’t visit much anymore.
Fine. They messed with the routine anyway.
Stan trembled. He felt a slow itching. He loved his
wife, really loved her. Does that still mean something
these days?
He made a movement with his hands. It was very
much like the gestures that the nuns had taught him
when he was a child.
He shuffled back to the bedroom, stood before the
wardrobe. The first hanger, on the far right. The grey
suit and beige tie. White, starchy shirt and
underpants. White socks. Stan dressed slow and
deliberate. He brushed himself down.

“There,” he said, “ready.”

Ready for the new day.

The park was a short walk away. The park. Some

things must stay the same.
There was the bench where Stan would sit with his
Beloved, beneath the tree, holding hands, watching
their children on the swing, or the see–saw, knowing
that even Heaven could not awaken such joy.
When Stan was a younger man the world was his
oyster. He had a beautiful wife, a safe, dependable
job. On that bench, beneath that tree, she was the
most beautiful woman in the whole world. No dispute.
On that tree he carved her name: LILLY.
 He had done it with his pocket knife. A trusty tool,
the same one his Father had brought back from the
war. Dammit, traditions are important.
He could feel it rubbing against his thigh with
rough familiarity. The plan was to trace that word he
had made so long ago. That was the most significant
part of Tuesday’s ritual.
He walked with a comfortable stride.
Before he even crossed the road he could hear the
noise.
A terrible grinding.
It was out of place, messing with the routine.
From a distance the workmen were a blur, but as
he got closer it became all too clear. There were five
of them. Ladders and ropes. Hardhats. A chainsaw,
causing all the trouble. The tree and the bench were
cordoned off with yellow tape. A distance of ten feet,
all around.
Stan kept walking. His stomach churned. He
made it to within a few yards. One of them
approached with a friendly challenge. He was
sweaty, unshaven. It was early morning, but in the
height of summer.
“Hey…” the man said.
 Stan didn’t acknowledge the greeting. He was
looking past the beefy shoulder, at the destruction
beyond.
Thick, gnarled tree limbs lay strewn about. The
man with the noisy chainsaw worked with an easy,
practiced diligence. He was already down to the
substantial trunk, but even that once stout resistance
was giving away, all too easily.
The carver was a mess of wood chips and stale
sap. His mouth was a grim line. The safety glasses
he wore kept his resolute eyes focused.
Stan felt bile eating at his guts and his soul.
The man in front of him said “We’re doing a bit of
work here. Need you to stand back. Sorry…”
The efficient chainsaw ate closer ate down the
trunk. It would not be denied. Stan itched and
quivered. Her name was carved on the other side; no
way could he see it from where he stood.
Yet…
There! Now, right… now!
He could feel it. Those metal teeth rending Her
name to fragments.
Something broke inside of Stan, something vital.
The man blocking him was talking again. The
angry noise disputed the words, and Stan wasn’t
interested in what he said anyway. A rough hand
touched his shoulder. Stan flinched, gave ground.
His left hand brushed the knife in his pocket, but it
was a useless gesture. Nothing but pure instinct.
Stan took another step backwards. It was the only
response available to him.
“Hey sir, you okay?”
Stan turned his back. He walked away.
He crossed the road. A car braked hard, played its
horn. Stan paid it no mind.
With slow, plodding steps, Stan made his way
home. The front door opened to the living room, and
there the shrine. Stan approached as he always did,
as a penitent, but this time he paused three feet
away.
He was not worthy. He backed away, as far as he
was able, until his calves met the couch and he sat.
“Lilly…” he said. It was more breath than word.
What now? He thought.
He touched the hard bulge in his pocket.
He sat in thought for what felt like a long time.
Then he said, “Yes, yes of course.”
He had to fidget, squirm, until he knuckled out the
knife. He thumbed the blade. It came alive with a
crisp, metallic snick!
And there it was, inevitable.
Stan put the knife on the cushion beside him. He
reached down and began to roll up his left trouser leg.
He got it past his knee. His calf was wasted with age,
flaccid, but there was enough meat there.
Stan picked up the knife. He looked at the shrine.
He said nothing. Now was not the time for words.
Now was the time for grand gestures.
He took a deep breath.
The first cut was an almost perfect straight line,
three inches long and an inch deep. Blood erupted
immediately in a vicious torrent. It cascaded down his
leg and soaked into his sock. He made the next cut
without a pause, a quick, angry slash where the first
cut ended, creating a rather functional letter “L”. This
time Stan pushed the blade in deeper, as if to
reinforce his resolution.
The blood flowed harder. It pooled in his shoe,
overflowed to make the carpet a viscous swamp from
which the stain could never be removed. His jaw
clenched involuntary. Muscles contracted. Vital
systems gave way to shock. Stan sucked at breath.
 Stan carved the next letter. He was aiming for
another straight line, a simple letter ‘I’, but it appeared
jagged. More like a stroke of lightning, and lower than
the first letter. Blood now spattered his face. It was
as if he had cut an artery, but it was in fact the quick,
decisive movements of the blade.
Stan’s right hand went into spasm. He dropped
the knife. It was a slippery tool by now. He reached
forward and the sudden head rush made him swoon.
He reached for the blade. It slipped. He reached
again, reclaimed it. He sat back. His breath was
ragged and shallow.
He felt like nodding off, just letting go, but suddenly
he sat up, opened his eyes wide.
He thought yes, yes I can do this.
He looked at his bloody right fist, still clenching the
knife.
Stan leaned forward, to carve the next letter.
Mark McAuliffe lives in Brisbane, Australia. He has
had stories and poems published in several small
press magazines since the 1990s. More recently his
stories have appeared in the e-zines AntipodeanSF
and Eclecticism. Two of his short stories are
published in the anthology, An Eclectic Slice of Life,
from Dark Prints Press.
 Anniversary by Tim Jeffreys

He’ll be here soon, Jade thought.

She was re-applying her face powder for the tenth
time in the little mirror mounted on the wall in the
downstairs hallway. The hallway was not well-lit, but
the only other mirror was upstairs in the bathroom and
she didn’t want to go all the way upstairs in case the
doorbell rang and she was not quick enough getting
back down to answer it. Happy that she could powder
no more, she re-did her lipstick. After pursing her lips
a few times at her reflection, she flicked her long dark
hair to check that the henna had taken and there was
no longer any sign of grey. She wanted everything to
be perfect. Hurrying away her make-up bag, she
moved into the dining room. She wore the long red
dress he’d always liked her to wear on their
anniversary. It was strapless and cut low in the front
to display her cleavage, of which she was still proud.
She was amazed that the dress still fit. She had worn
it every year since… well, she couldn’t remember.
The first few times she’d worn it for him she’d been
very quickly out of it again. Remembering this made
her smile.
 She had laid out the table hours ago, dimmed the
lights, and placed candles all around the room. A set
of double doors on her left led through to another
room where there was more candlelight. As she’d not
had time to tidy away her books, leaving them
splayed out on the floor, she pulled the doors closed.
Another doorway at the end of the room led to the
kitchen from where various tasty aromas wafted.
Feeling a flutter of anxiety in her chest she hurried
about the room re-lighting candles that had gone out
and running off a mental checklist of her preparations.
-White wine in the cooler. A Chardonnay. His
favourite.
-Roast in the oven. Vegetables on the boil.
-Homemade cheesecake in the fridge.
-Silk teddy laid out on the bed upstairs for when
she wanted to slip into something more comfortable.
What else? What else? What had she forgotten?
There must be something.
The doorbell rang.
The anxiety in her chest turned to excitement that
made her head feel light. She rushed towards the
front door, but stopped to take a deep breath and
compose herself. She took her time walking the rest
of the way.
“Darling!” she said, swinging the door open.
“Happy anniversary!”
He stood on the stoop gazing back at her: tall and
handsome. She was always surprised by just how
handsome he was. Dressed in a black suit with shirt
and tie, very dashing, except that the top two buttons
of his shirt were open and the knot of his tie had been
pulled loose. Well, she thought, he never could stand
to feel it pressing up against his throat. He said it felt
like it was strangling him. The only thing that really
bothered her was the expression on his face. He did
not look happy that it was their anniversary, or even
happy to see her. His face showed nothing. Perhaps
there was something on his mind. Well, he would
forget whatever it was when he saw what she’d
prepared, wouldn’t he?
“Darling, don’t just stand there,” she said, smiling
and stepping back to allow him entrance.
He stepped stiffly into the house and walked
through to the dining room without further
encouragement. She caught an odour as he passed
her, ripe, and earthy, and remembered what it was
she’d forgotten to do. Light some incense sticks.
Now she would have to find a sly way to do it so he
wouldn’t take offense. Closing the door, she followed
him into the house. He’d come to a halt beside a
chair at one end of the table and stood there with his
arms by his sides like a dog waiting for instruction
from its owner.
“Here?” he asked her in a dull voice as she
entered the room.
“Sit down, dear,” she said. “Don’t be so formal.”
He sat down in the chair whilst she examined his
face. Clearly, something was bothering him. She
wondered if she should pry. He might want to talk, or
he might just want to forget about it.
“Well,” she said, twirling as she crossed the room.
“Aren’t you going to tell me how pretty I look?”
He gazed at her blankly. He made no comment.
A little crestfallen, but trying not to show it, Jade
went to fetch the wine from the kitchen. She went to
him and showed him the bottle.
“A Chardonnay, darling. Your favourite.”
He didn’t speak. He only looked at her. Then he
said in a soft but firm voice: “Why?”
“Why?” she echoed.
“Why did you make me come here again?”
 She placed the bottle of wine down on the table.
She felt tears threatening suddenly behind her eyes.
Why was he being so cruel, after all she’d done to
make the evening special? Turning away, she caught
her full reflection in the window glass – why hadn’t
she drawn the curtains? – and realised how absurd
she looked. The dress. The damn dress! It didn’t fit
her anymore. She looked squeezed into it, and it
bulged over her tummy, and her arms looked chunky
and fat. It was a mistake; a terrible mistake.
“Make you?” she said, a catch in her voice. “How
could I make you? I invited you, that’s all. I invited
you. It’s our anniversary. Isn’t it? Don’t you love me
anymore? Is that it? Don’t you love me?” A note of
hysteria had appeared in her voice. Tears were close
now, and if she let them run they would ruin her
make-up and then how would she look?
He turned his gaze towards the double doors she’d
closed only a few minutes before. Of course he knew
what she kept in there. He’d seen.
“Those books…” he said.
“My books, dear? What about them? They’re just
books.”
“You need to get rid of them. Burn them. You
need to stop doing this.”
She turned and looked at him, noticing for the first
time how pale he was. Forgetting herself for a
moment, moved by curiosity, she said: “What’s it like?
What’s it like where you are when you’re not here?
What’s it like?”
“Cold,” he said. “Dark.”
“And lonely?” she said, the note of hysteria
springing up in her voice again. “It must be lonely
there! Oh, darling can you blame me? I’m lonely too.
Don’t be mad.”
He shifted his head slightly and looked her in the
eye. “Let me go,” he said.
“But, darling, it’s our anniversary!”
“Let me go,” he said again, in a dull resigned
voice.
He stood up from his chair and she rushed to him,
putting her arms around him, trying as best she could
to ignore the smell that invaded her nostrils and
almost made her gag.
“Kiss me! Kiss me, darling! I’m so alone! I miss
you terribly!”
With a small movement of his arm, he shoved her
away. She was half-turned around by his push so
that she faced the windows, and again she met with
her own reflection. Why hadn’t she drawn the
curtains! The woman she saw staring back at her,
despite the layers of make-up, despite the henna in
her hair, was old and hag-like. She looked like a
piece of fruit that had been left too long on the shelf:
dried up and wrinkled. She remembered what he’d
said to her that night, all those years ago. He’d said it
bitterly, in anger, using it like a weapon to hurt her.
Witch!
She saw him standing behind her and felt a shiver.
He was still young, but like a man carved from wood.
His eyes were empty. And that suit he wore, she
hated it. He’d never worn suits. He worked outdoors
and had always worn whatever he felt comfortable in.
Never suits!
“Forgive me,” she said, turning again. “I only do it
because I miss you. I want to be with you.”
Before she was fully facing him, his cold hands
sprang to her throat and began to squeeze.
“Come with me then!”
“No…please!”
She saw the wine bottle stood within reach on the
table just as she had that night so many years ago,
that first time he had taken her by the throat and
called her Witch in that dreadful bitter way. She
reached out and clutched at it just as she had that
night and lifted it and smashed it against the side of
his head, just to make him stop, just to make him let
her go. To her relief, she felt his grip on her throat
slacken. He stumbled away from her and then
slumped forwards.
He lay on the floor, the carpet around him dark
with spilt wine and sprinkled with glittering shards of
glass.
“I didn’t mean to do it!” she shouted at him. “I just
wanted you to stop choking me!”
He didn’t move.
She stood with a hand at her lips, staring at the
body on the floor. Then she crouched down and lifted
him. She remembered again about the incense
sticks. With a vast amount of effort that brought
beads of sweat out on her forehead, she dragged him
towards the table and lifted him into his chair. He sat
slumped to the side but reasonably upright. She let
out a long sigh.
“Never mind about the wine,” she said. “There’s
still dinner to get through. I love you, darling, and I
want you to know that I forgive you. We’ve only got
tonight, so let’s not fight, okay?”
She turned, meaning to walk into the kitchen, but
instead she opened up the double doors and walked
into the candlelit room where her books where laid out
all over the floor. The words and symbols on the
pages leapt up at her, reminded her of how much
effort it had taken just to make tonight possible.
Turning from the room and closing the double doors,
she glanced at the young man still propped in the
same position in his chair at the end of the table.
Then her eyes moved to a clock on the wall.
“Darling,” she said. “It’s our anniversary. We’ve a
few hours left. Let’s make the most of it.”
Walking through to the kitchen, she opened the
oven door and breathed in the smell of the sizzling
meat.
She busied herself then in cutting the meat and
arranging it and the vegetables onto two plates.
Wasn’t presentation half of the appeal of a nice
dinner? Finally happy with her arrangement, she
carried the two plates to the table placing one in front
of him and one at the opposite end of the table.
“Tuck in, darling. Don’t wait for me. Don’t want it
to get…” She hesitated over the world ‘cold’, turned
from him and sat down in the opposite chair.
“Remember that time,” she said, smiling but not
looking at him. “Remember when…”
She talked for a while, not looking at him. When
she finally raised her eyes she saw that he had
slumped forward and lay face down in his dinner.
“Darling,” she said, getting up. “Darling, don’t be
so silly. You must say if I’m boring you. Oh, you and
your silly pranks. Sit up.”
He did not sit up, so she lifted him herself. He now
had mashed potato and bits of broccoli stuck to his
face, which she carefully wiped away with a napkin.
Glancing down at his plate, she saw something
moving there, wriggling, and felt her stomach lurch.
Putting the napkin to her mouth, she returned to her
seat, took up her knife and fork again, drew a deep
sigh, and said: “And what about that time…”
Tim Jeffreys is the author of five collections of short
stories, the most recent being The Lucky Penny and
Other Stories , as well of the first two books of his
Thief saga. His short fiction has also appeared in
various international anthologies and magazines. His
stories are best described as a mix of horror, fairytale,
black comedy, and everyday life. Originally from
Manchester, UK, Tim now lives in the south west of
England where he can divides his time between
working at his day job, taking care of his daughters,
haunting libraries, or sitting at his desk writing. Visit
him online at www.timjeffreyswriter.webs.com
Cold Shock by Kit Power

It takes twenty minutes for a submerged car to fill

with water. Seth doesn’t even wake up for the first
four.
The car has reached the bottom of the lake, but
the right hand rear wheel has landed on a large rock,
tilting the vehicle at an angle, so even though the
water is coming in via the full length of the tiny gap
between the rear door and the bottom of the chassis,
it’s pooling in the opposite corner from Seth. He
doesn’t see the water level rise up the heel of his
boots, the rippling reflection of the torch creating a
series of yellow halos around his feet. It takes four
minutes for the water to reach the bottom eyeholes
and start to soak into his socks.
What he’s aware of, then, is darkness, and a
savage biting pain spreading across his foot. His body
snatches the leg up, instinctively, still fighting with
consciousness, unwilling to resurface, but the
movement is no more than a twitch, and the boot slips
back to its prior position, and the water seeps in
again. Seth feels the biting sensation spread to his
other foot, and that forces his mind back into
consciousness. His eyes spring open, and precious
seconds tick by as they resolve the blurry double
image into the roof of a car.
Mandy’s car.
The people carrier. The Bitch Bus.
He’s in the back.
His head is pounding in time with his heart, pulses
of dark pain that spread from the back of his skull
across the surface of his head and down his neck,
forcing a moan from his throat that he is totally
unaware of. Each throb blurs his vision, forcing his
eyes to refocus, a nauseating feeling, disorienting. His
eyes roll up into his head, come back, pupils dilate,
contract. The biting sensation reaches his ankle, and
something about the feeling of the water encircling
him there forces its way through the fog, and he looks
down.
The water is dark, muddy. In the beam of light
cast by the small torch jammed in the mesh of the
metal dog guard, he sees his feet are absent, below
the waterline. Swallowed up to the ankle. His
concussed mind reacts as though they’ve been cut
off, because that’s how it feels, like his feet have been
amputated, removed by the water. He draws his
knees up in fright, and is surprised to see his
darkened books appear. He draws them up under his
knees, and goes to reach down and touch them, to
convince him of their reality.
His arms travel a short distance, then stop, held at
the wrists. He looks up, along the line of his left arm,
blinking stupidly, and more seconds tick lazily by as
he turns his head and pulls his arms again, feeling the
bite at the wrists now, seeing the short length of chain
linking him to the thick black metal mesh that
separates the back of the car from the front. The cuffs
trigger a memory, and his concussed mind flashes to
the black nail varnish on the nails of the hand of the
girl gripping the bed as he snaps the cuff around her
pale wrist, his body pressed against and into hers,
feeling her naked breasts squashed into his chest,
tight enough to feel her hard nipples and her
breathing increase.
He marvels at how that could have given him so
much pleasure. He finds the image, the memory,
right now, about as erotic as road kill. Like trying to
keep watching porn after you’ve come. It’s ugly. The
cold continues to claw and bite at his feet like a
hungry animal, and he feels his genitals contract,
shrink, withdraw.
 Mortal fear is not an aphrodisiac.
He tries to turn his head, to see the other hand, but
it’s higher and the angle is difficult and moving his
head hurts, and anyway, he can feel that it’s the same
deal. He turns his head back to centre, looking down
the gradual slope of the floor. He sees the water, still
trickling fast through the crack between the rear door
and the bottom of the car. Watches the water level
crawl towards him. Rising. He sees the wrapper from
a doggy treat floating on the surface. He stares at it,
and the concussion does its thing, and he’s back at
home.
Rivet gun in hand. Bent over in the back of the
car. Looking up at Mandy. It’s a warm spring
afternoon and the bright sunlight twinkles off the
plastic gems in the thick bands of her fake Jackie O
sunglasses.
“You understand once I put this in, it’s not coming
out? You won’t be able to use the rear seats
anymore. It’ll leave ugly holes.”
“I don’t care, I need something that’ll keep those
bitches where they belong.”
She smiles, a flash of white teeth.
“I’m thinking about the resale value of the car…”
 “Balls to the resale. It’s my Bitch Bus. Do your
man thing, man. I want that guard rock solid.”
“Well miss, when I rivet something, it stays
riveted.”
She laughs at that. The sound is pleasing and
annoying all at once.
The water reaches his knees, soaks into the blue
denim. He feels a spike of pain that is just the wrong
side of numbing, and he jerks his legs up again, but
there’s nowhere for them to jerk to. He is jammed
into the top corner of the space now, and the water is
still rising.
The cold attacks his knee, and suddenly he’s all
the way awake, focused, realising this is not some
lucid dream, some awful guilt nightmare. As the
useless adrenaline surges through his system,
causing his arm muscles to lock as they strain against
the cuffs that chain him to the bolted dog guard, his
memory flashes again.
He sees Mandy, rolling pin in hand, that strange
smile on her face. He remembers turning away from
her, then the sound of a mallet hitting wood.
The water has reached his other knee, crawling up
his thigh and folded calf. He shivers for the first time,
a huge shudder that travels up his spine, rattles his
head against the metal and causes another flare of
pain, not enough to disorient, but enough to cause
him to cry out. It sounds like a wounded animal. The
sound of his own voice, ragged and unfamiliar, sends
a spike of fear right into his heart. He feels that
muscle lurch in his chest, painfully, then carry on
hammering, too fast and too hard, he feels his breath
becoming ragged, panting, as the water level climbs
towards his waist.
His knees are numb now, but the cold is stripping
his thighs, feels like, and he shudders again, feeling
his jaw start to tremble too. The water is nearing his
balls now, and he feels them shrivel in anticipation,
becoming painfully wrinkled, folding the fabric of his
underwear inside them, his penis just a nub, and his
breath comes out in a shuddering sob as he looks
back up at the cuffs. Tears come to his eyes.
The water reaches his scrotum, and it is agony,
like being kicked, squeezed, and he yells with pain,
tears flowing freely down his cheeks. He feels his
stomach turn, but he’s too knotted up to throw up, his
body rebelling at the notion of losing precious heat.
He’s stuck instead with the knot, and the pain as his
balls and dick are submerged in the almost-ice-cold
water.
He yells again, the shout gaining a vibrating,
quavering quality as the shudders become stronger,
feeling as though they will snap his spine, rattle his
brain loose. He takes a deep breath and holds it for a
second, and though it doesn’t slow the shivers, he at
least stops himself from screaming again. He closes
his mouth, gritting his teeth to try and stop them
clattering together, and as the water reaches his
waistline he looks back up at the cuff, willing it to be
loose, on his wrist or on the car.
It isn’t.
He tugs anyway, as hard as he can, muscles in his
back and shoulder screaming at the stress, the
unnatural angle, and the metal gives not at all, and
the cuffs bite into his wrist but move not at all, and his
breath comes out of him in a growl as the water
reaches his navel, crawling towards his diaphragm.
He doesn’t notice that the water level has almost
reached the torch, is only dimly aware that the
shadows are growing longer as the beam of light is
hitting a smaller and smaller surface area.
Instead, he just feels panic, animal and deep and
total, rising up from his chest, into his throat, he tries
to hold it there and can’t. It floods his brain. He
screams and pulls and screams and pulls, wasting
vital warmth and precious energy and oxygen,
bruising and cutting his wrists on the indifferent metal,
straining the muscle in his left arm and almost
dislocating his right shoulder, and the deep ripping
sensation of this last cuts through the panic for a
second, and he regains a kind of lucidity and stares at
the cuffs.
He sees the girl, and then he sees Mandy. Mandy
after a kiss. Mandy after a hug. Mandy after they
made love. Mandy talking, that sweet voice, saying if
you ever cheat on me..
Then the water reaches his diaphragm, and
suddenly breathing is hard and harsh and painful and
contracted, and he’s trying to scream but his lungs
don’t have the oxygen, so instead he utters a series of
short yelps, and they feel raw and painful in his
constricting throat.
It is at this point that the water reaches the end of
the torch. The fluid flows against the bulb, and with
an almost inaudible plink, the light goes out.
Seth’s world turns instantly blank. Void. For a few
seconds, there’s the ghostly afterimage of the roof of
the car, then that fades from his retina. He’s stopped
yelping, is now just panting, his heart is racing, and he
can still hear the sound of rushing water and still feel
the level rising as it reaches the bottom of his ribcage.
If you ever cheat on me...
He starts to thrash wildly, bucking and heaving, all
restraint gone, conscious thought obliterated, mind a
dull panic, the cold stronger than everything, stronger
than the world, and he has a moment in the centre of
the eye of the storm of hysteria to think that the cold is
the only really real thing he’s ever experienced, ever
will experience. His mind sinks again and the panic
rises again. This time he does tear muscles in his
shoulder and arm as he thrashes and tries to shriek,
voice cracked, throat closing down, the overexertion
and hyperventilation and blunt force trauma to the
back of the skull all do their part and he passes out.
The water rises.
His eyes open once more, but he doesn’t realise it.
They register nothing. His chin and neck are cold.
The rest of his body has gone. He feels drowsy,
exhausted. His synapses fire, more-or-less randomly,
sending fleeting images across his mind. He sees his
mother’s smiling face. He sees the ocean. He sees
Hannibal with a cigar clamped in his teeth saying “I
love it when a plan comes together!”. He sees a
hunched up figure walking across a frozen lake,
snowflakes swirling in the wind. He sees an eskimo.
The images fade. His eyes do not close, but he faints
anyway.
By the time the water has reached his nose, his
throat has completely sealed itself off, in a last
desperate bid to keep the body alive. The water flows
into his stomach instead, swiftly cooling his blood, and
cardiac arrest occurs three minutes later.

It takes several days for the tiny fish to access the

car and eat what remain of his eyes.
Kit Power writes fiction that lurks on the borders of
the horror, thriller and fantasy genres, trying to bum a
smoke or hitch a ride from the unwary. His debut e-
novella, The Loving Husband and the Faithful Wife
was published by Black Beacon Books in Jan 14, and
is available to purchase now from amazon.com . He
also sings with popular beat combo and rumoured
death cult The Disciples Of Gonzo.
Angie's Change by Deb Eskie

It’s the most celebrated day in a young girl’s life;

the day she becomes a woman. Susan Whitman
came to school wearing red lipstick the day after she
got her first period. She said her mother threw her a
“red party” and she was now allowed to wear makeup.
Nina was already wearing tampons. She bragged
about this in the locker room, claiming she was no
longer a virgin because her hymen had been broken.
Some of the other girls challenged her and said that
you couldn’t lose your virginity to a tampon. But I
stayed quiet when all this chatter went on. I couldn’t
participate. I was nearly thirteen years old and still
flat-chested with no blood. Jenna and I still played
with our dolls and went on the swings. We didn’t
wear lipstick and bras yet. We didn’t care about boys,
or the mall, or magazine quizzes. We were kids and
we liked it that way. But I was curious, envious even.
I had a big sister, Olivia, who had gotten her period
around my age. It seemed like she became
glamorous and sophisticated overnight when it
happened. Boys liked her and she had a confidence I
was unfamiliar with.
“Does it hurt?” I asked her, examining a tampon I
had pulled out of her purse. I unpeeled the paper and
removed the cotton from its applicator, dissecting and
studying the various parts.

“No, silly,” my sister laughed.

“Nina Thompson said it did,”
“Well, maybe the first time, it does a little.”
“What about the bleeding? Does that hurt?”
“No. The cramps suck, but you get used to it after
a while.” She seemed so old and wise as she
brushed and braided my hair the way Mom used to
years ago. I missed her in that moment. We both
did. “Mom taught me how to take care of myself when
I don’t feel well during my period. Sometimes warm
baths help, or just sleeping. I get really sleepy on
some days. She’d even let me eat chocolate if I got
cranky.”
“Chocolate?”
“The cure for PMS!”
“Having your period sounds like a lot of work,”
“It is. It’s not fun, but it’s kinda cool that we get to
be the ones who have the babies.”
“Having babies hurts,” I mentioned, remembering
the movie that was shown in Health class. They
separated the boys and girls to watch a documentary
on the miracle of life. Jenna threw up during the
delivery scene and left the class to go home sick.
“I guess you’re right,” Olivia agreed, and gave it
some thought. “Being a girl’s no fun,” she admitted,
“but I certainly wouldn’t wanna be a boy.”
“I would,” I said.
“Well, I’m glad you’re a girl.” She handed me a
mirror and I tossed my head to the side, looking at the
decorative hairstyle she arranged with colorful beads
and barrettes. My sister smiled at her
accomplishment from behind me. Her big, brown
eyes gazed at me and I hoped that I could some day
be as pretty as she.
When Jenna came over we went to my room to
play with Missy and Fredrick, the giant giraffes we
won together at the faire years ago. As usual we
pretended that Missy and Fredrick were roaming
about in Africa and that they were seeking new
friends in the jungle. Honestly, I was beginning to feel
strange playing with stuffed animals all the time when
Jenna was over. It seemed juvenile. Kids at school
were always making fun of us for the way we were.
They called us babies and losers. The girls were the
worst. They’d tease us about our clothes and our
hobbies, but the boys were pretty bad too. They’d
grab the small flesh where our breasts were
supposed to be, and call us flat and other mean
things. I was growing tired of the constant cruelty and
tired of being a kid. But I didn’t want to hurt Jenna’s
feelings by telling her that. I played along, only this
time I pretended that Missy had cramps and needed
to rest.
“What are you doing?”
“Well, Missy’s a girl. Girls get their periods. Even
giant giraffe girls, I bet.”
“No they don’t!” Jenna shouted and snatched
Missy out of my hands, as if protecting the stuffed
animal from a terrible violation.
“What’s the big deal?”
“It’s gross!”
“So?”
“So, I don’t wanna talk about it anymore!” Jenna
crossed her arms defiantly. I’d seen Jenna upset
before, but I couldn’t understand why she was being
so stubborn.
“Jenna, I don’t wanna play with giraffes anymore,”
I told her. “I don’t wanna keep acting like a little kid.
We look foolish to the other girls.”
 “I don’t care. I thought we didn’t wanna be like
them?”
“I do wanna be like them. I wanna act more
grown-up. I’m supposed to get my period this year
and it hasn’t come yet. I’m tired of waiting.”
“Trust me, you don’t want it.”
“I do want it,” I admitted, surprised by my own
acknowledgement. I had spent so many years
ignoring and rejecting the simple fact of life, that I had
barely accepted my own destiny. And now I realized
that I was anxious for my destiny to finally come. I felt
a distance between me and my friend, like I was
moving forward and she was staying still. I had so
many questions and things to talk about in relation to
my body and the changes it would soon go through.
Things I had overheard my sister talk about on the
phone with her friends, but I couldn’t talk about these
things with Jenna. I wasn’t even sure if she knew
what sex was.
“I wish things would stay the same!” Jenna told
me and I took her hand in mine.
“I guess it can’t be helped,” I said. “But we’ll
always be friends. And if I get my period before you
do, I promise to tell you everything, so that it’s not so
scary when you get yours.”
“It’s too late for that,” Jenna said, wiping away her
tears. She stared at me for a moment and the truth
suddenly occurred to me.
“You mean you got yours already?”
“I’ve had it since I was nine.” She confessed and
an uneasy feeling settled upon me. How could my
best friend have her period for three years and not tell
me? How could she have gotten it first? “I gotta go.”
Jenna abruptly said, and she picked herself up from
off my bed and headed toward the door.
“Wait a minute! You’re not gonna talk to me about
it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“What about what it’s like? What it feels like to be
a woman?”
“It’s awful; everything about it.” And with that,
Jenna left and went home.
My friend did not bring up the subject again to me
and I was reluctant to mention it, myself. But I began
to observe her bathroom habits more closely. I also
noticed how often she’d excuse herself from class. In
Gym, a few weeks later, Jenna stood in line at the
mats, holding her stomach. A sweat had broken on
her forehead and she hunched over and ran to the
bathroom to puke. When I offered to take her to the
nurse, she declined. “I’m fine,” she insisted. “It’s just
part of the suffer.”
“The suffer?” Jenna explained that cramps and
nausea were punishments from God and that the pain
was to remind her that Eve had sinned. The suffer
was something she had learned to accept and bear,
as all women do, but often she wished she had been
born a boy. She told me about the first time she saw
blood in the toilet. She thought she was dying. She
screamed and cried and her grandmother forced her
to her knees and made her pray for forgiveness. That
day, she learned what the curse was for the very first
time. Since then, her grandfather had come to refuse
hugs from her. One time, she had stained the bed.
Her grandmother grabbed her by the hair, stuck her
face in the blood, and told her she was unclean. She
was now careful not to have accidents or let her
periods be known, even if she was cramping or sick.
The curse was to be suffered in silence. If she bled
into her panties, she’d throw them away before her
grandmother could discover them in the wash. The
stress of covering up her periods was far less severe
than the stress of her grandmother finding evidence of
accidents. “It’s proper and correct to seem like it
doesn’t happen.” Jenna said to me and she squeezed
her stomach as Mrs. Matthews, the gym coach,
checked in on us.
Daddy gave me a book called, “Every Question
You Might Have”. He seemed nervous as he handed
it to me and said that he wished my mom was around
for this kind of stuff, but that he was glad I had Olivia.
I thought of Jenna and how she had no one. Her
mother had run away years ago and left her with her
grandparents who were cold and old-fashioned. I
realized that the book could help Jenna as well, but
when I showed it to her she seemed horrified. “Close
the book, Angie! I don’t like to see stuff like that!” She
yelled, referring to the illustration of two people
making love.
“I just wanted to read you something,” I replied
and read a paragraph from the section about a girl’s
first period. “This book was written by doctors. They
say that it’s perfectly normal to get your period and
that you should be proud that you’re healthy.”
“Doctors don’t know everything. They don’t know
about God or the Devil.” I couldn’t argue with that. I
went to the same church as Jenna, and I believed in
Heaven and Hell just as much. Jenna’s grandparents
were friendly with my dad, but he wasn’t always a fan
of them. I remember him telling my mom he thought
they were old, crotchety bores. She scolded him and
reminded him that they were active in the church and
that it was best to play nice. When Jenna’s
grandparents showed up to Mommy’s funeral and
offered to help pay for the ceremony, my father felt
forever in their debt. Even if their methods seemed
dated and uptight, my father believed Mr. and Mrs.
Sweeney to be true to God and ultimately good
people.
The day I got attacked by Nick Cooper is the day
things between me and Jenna changed forever.
Looking back, I wish that they hadn’t changed and
that everything could have stayed the same just as
Jenna wanted. But that’s impossible.
The boys were always bothering us on our walk
home. Sometimes they’d follow us and throw pebbles
at the back of our heads. We usually ignored them,
yet I was through with being a cowardly baby these
days. So when Cooper told me he could make a
woman out of me, I turned around and told him to
shut his stupid mouth. “What did you say?” Cooper
yelled back, startled. His friend, Daniel, struggled to
control his snickering.
“I said shut your stupid mouth!” I repeated, and
Jenna begged for me to keep walking, but I refused. I
stared right into Cooper’s eyes and he stared into
mine. Then he swung his arm and I felt his fist smash
into my face. I fell to the ground and just as Cooper
moved to beat on me further, Jenna kicked him in the
crotch, jumped on top of him, and began punching
him over and over. All I could hear was Daniel
screaming and the sound of Cooper’s face breaking.
I got to my feet and pulled Jenna off the kid before
she killed him.
“Fucking crazy bitch!” Cooper said as he wiped
the blood from his nose and mouth. Jenna looked at
him and smiled. Then she licked his blood off her
knuckles. I couldn’t believe her audacity. I had never
seen her so vulgar before and I was impressed.
“Maybe, but you’re the one that got beaten up by
a girl,” Jenna replied. Cooper approached her and
got close in her face, but then turned and left with a
horrified Daniel following.
“Fucking cunts are probably on their periods,” we
heard one of the boys say.
“Are you okay?” Jenna asked me. I was, but I was
still shaken up and bleeding from my bottom lip.
Jenna offered me a tissue and I dabbed the wound
gently. Tears filled my eyes as I glanced down at the
tissue stained with red and at that moment Jenna
leaned forward and kissed my bloody mouth. It
wasn’t a friend kiss, or a simple kiss to make me feel
better. This was the kind of kiss I’d never had before.
“I love you.” Jenna told me.
“I love you too,” I said, but I wasn’t sure which
kind of love we were referring to.

“That book you showed me. It said that

sometimes when you become a woman you have
feelings and urges. I think you’re so beautiful, Angie.
I want to do the things in that book with you.”
“Jenna, those things are for grown-ups and you
should want to do them with a man.” Jenna searched
me with her eyes and held back tears as she picked
up her backpack and began to walk away. “Jenna?” I
called after her, but she did not look back.
In school Jenna seemed uncomfortable around
me, but I wanted her to know that we were still good
friends, so I showed her the new unicorn stickers
Daddy had bought me. As we sat together decorating
our homework folders with them, things felt a little
more normal again.
I didn’t usually like going over to Jenna’s house,
but Daddy was on a date with his girlfriend and Olivia
had rehearsal for the school play that she was in.
Daddy insisted I make the attempt to visit once in a
while, because the Sweeneys cared about me and
they were friends of the family. Anyway, they were
always very pleasant to me. I didn’t really have much
reason to be afraid. The tension I felt there was
mostly due to Jenna’s stories.
The house was old, but spacious, well furnished,
and cozy. I wasn’t fond of Mr. Sweeney’s study where
he kept all his taxidermy, but children were not
permitted in there anyway. This was made known to
me when Jenna had snuck me in once to show me
pictures of her mother. They were in a family album
that had been stored away. I found it peculiar that her
family would hide pictures of Jenna’s mom. Pictures
of my mother were everywhere in my house. Even
with his new girlfriend, Daddy had never stopped
loving her. However, Jenna informed me that her
mother was a sinner and was dead to her family. She
didn’t know if her mother was really dead or not, but it
didn’t matter. She was never coming back. When
Mr. Sweeney found us in his study he was upset and
demanded that we get out. He said it was impolite to
be poking around other people’s things and he
forbade us to ever enter the study again.
This time, Jenna and I spent the night in the
downstairs TV room and watched movies, while
eating buttered popcorn. My stomach began to hurt
so I got up and went to the nearby bathroom. As I
pulled down my panties on the toilet, I noticed a large
brownish stain in the crotch. I gasped and smiled.
“Jenna,” I whispered from the door, and waved her
over. “It happened! I got it!”
“What?”
“My period. I got it!” Jenna shushed me to be quiet
and she made sure her grandmother was nowhere in
sight. “I need a pad or something,” I said, and Jenna
came into the bathroom and pulled one out of the box
under the sink.

“Can I see it?” She then asked, before handing

me the pad.
“Why would you want to see it?”
“Because now we suffer together.” It was a
bizarre request, but I slowly pulled up my skirt and
displayed the wet stain in my underwear. Jenna
came close to me, so close I could feel her breath.
“Can I touch it?” She asked. I didn’t know how to
answer this, but I suppose I wanted her to. I nodded
and she placed two fingers in the opening of my
vagina. When she pulled them out they were covered
in brown, sticky goo. We looked at the blood together
and then at each other. There was a strange sort of
hunger in Jenna’s eyes. Footsteps could suddenly be
heard coming down the stairs and Jenna quickly
rinsed her fingers and met her grandmother outside
the bathroom door.
“What are you girls doing?” Mrs. Sweeney
questioned with suspicion.
“I was getting a pad for Angie,” Jenna came out
with. Mrs. Sweeney pushed the door open and saw
me standing by the toilet. By now my underwear had
been pulled up and I was adjusting my skirt.
“You’re both women now. You need to give each
other privacy.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jenna agreed. Mrs. Sweeney
approached me with a disapproving frown and studied
my face. “You need to go home, Angie. I’ll call your
father and have him pick you up.” She started away
and then turned back at us. “Your childhoods are
over now. No more toys, no more innocence. I pray
for you both.”
My father didn’t say much in the car. Mrs.
Sweeney told him that I had gone through the
change. She then suggested he take me to church.
“It’s a troubling time in a young girl’s life,” she said to
him. “She’s susceptible to the devil now.” Daddy
smiled and nodded then he thanked Mrs. Sweeney for
being there for me during such an important event.
Yet we drove in silence as my father and I headed
home. This was unusual for us. We always had
plenty to say to each other. I was beginning to feel
like getting my period wasn’t such a good thing after
all.
At home Olivia taught me to roll up my used pads
in toilet paper. She rubbed the lower part of my back
that ached and ran a soothing bath for me. “Olivia?” I
asked as the soap bubbles twirled and tickled my
skin. “Do you think we’re cursed?”
“No. I think we’re inconvenienced.” It was a nicer
way to look at it, but I wasn’t so convinced. My period
was becoming more and more difficult. My cramps
were nearly blinding and I felt too weak to go to
school. I felt like a grotesque flood of pollution.
Jenna came over to give me my makeup work
and to keep me company. She also decided it would
make sense to throw away Missy and Fredrick as a
final good-bye to our youth. “But we won those
together!” I protested.
“We’re grown-ups now,” Jenna replied, “no more
innocence.”
“I hate my period!” I confided.
“I know. Me too. It’s the devil,” she said in a
factual tone. “He’s in you now.”
“I want it to stop!”
“I want to make it stop for you.” She assured me,
clutching my hand and she kissed me and I kissed
her. Our bodies pressed together and we held each
other tightly, our lips touching. When Daddy came in
he was noticeably shocked and embarrassed. I hid
my face beneath my hands, but Jenna did not let go
of me. Daddy stared for a moment, and then
stuttered as he spoke.
“Girls, what you’re doing, it’s not right.”
“Are you going to tell my grandmother?” Jenna
asked, already knowing the answer.
 “I’m afraid I have to, Jenna. You’re sick. You
need help.”
“Daddy, she’s not sick!” I shouted, but he would
not listen. He handed me some tea he had just
prepared.
“Sweetheart, you’re going through changes and
you’re confused. Please just rest. Jenna, I’ll take you
home.”
I found out soon that Jenna had been removed
from school. In social studies, her desk sat empty.
Daddy wouldn’t tell me where she was, but he said
that the Sweeneys had put her in a place that helped
young girls like her. I hated him now and I refused to
look at him. His guilt was ever present, but he did
nothing to reverse what he had done. School had
become the loneliest place. I missed my friend. And
the more I missed her, the sicker I became. I wouldn’t
eat. I wouldn’t talk. I wouldn’t get out of bed. I
wanted to die. Still, Daddy did nothing. He took me
to the doctor who prescribed me pills, but I resisted
taking them. Pills wouldn’t bring back Jenna and it
would never take away the suffer I continued to
endure.
Olivia tucked me in and kissed me goodnight.
“Sleep tight, Angie,” she said. “I love you.” Daddy
came in after her. They exchanged glances as Olivia
left and Daddy sat on the edge of my bed. I turned
away from him.
“Angie, I found your meds hidden between the
cushions. You need to take your medicine,
Sweetheart!” I glared at him. “Sweetie, please talk to
me! Angie! I want my little girl back!” And Daddy
lowered his head and turned out the light to leave.
“Angie? Angie?” My eyes popped open. It was
two in the morning and I had been sleeping for
several hours. I looked around my room. The
shadows in each corner were still, but ominous. I
could hear Olivia’s wind chimes outside my window
moving in the cold, whirling air. I adjusted my body
under the covers and settled cozily upon my pillows
when she appeared as if out of nowhere. A dark,
blurry figure at first, but as I stared in dismay, my eyes
began to focus.
“Jenna?” She looked dreadful, skinny, pale, her
hair tangled and her forehead damp with sweat. She
wore a white nightgown that stuck to her frail form.
Below her belly, Jenna’s own blood was pouring onto
the carpet. Her delicate white nightgown was thickly
soaked in a frightful, horrible red that seemed to glow
in the moonlight. Jenna stretched her arms toward
me and I saw that she was carrying a knife, coated in
blood. I went to her and grabbed her arms. “Jenna,
what have you done?”
“I got away, Angie!” She cried and collapsed into
my embrace.
“Jenna, we have to get you to a hospital!”
“I got away! I’m free!” Her voice was shaky and
weak. “We don’t have to suffer anymore, Angie! You
can be free too!” She smiled at me and before I could
respond, Jenna pulled me to the ground and climbed
on top of me. I begged her to stop, but she took the
knife and sliced into me. I felt it cut deep into my
pelvis and screamed. The fierce and brutal sensation
spread through my entire body and I scratched at
Jenna’s face. She fought me, but her own bleeding
made her feeble, and she rolled off me and into the
puddle of blood on the floor. When it seemed as
though Jenna had passed out, I clenched my teeth
and pulled the knife out of my flesh.
“Daddy?” I could barely choke out and I crawled
to the door, a trail of blood behind me. Then, before I
could grasp the door knob I felt Jenna yank my leg
and pull me toward her. She reached for the knife,
but I took it before she could and jabbed it into the
base of her neck. She laid staring at me with wide
eyes, coughing and gasping as more blood leaked
from her mouth. Jenna wiped the gushing red with
her hand and looked at it with a strangely peaceful
expression. She then looked at me and a faint smile
could be seen as her eyes went up into her head and
her soul left her body.
I don’t bleed anymore. The depth of the knife
wound to my pelvis caused permanent damage to my
reproductive system and I cannot have children. I
used to be furious with Jenna, but counseling and the
support of my family helped me find closure. I mostly
feel sad for Jenna. She believed she was saving me.
I like to think that in her final moments she came to
realize that blood is natural, beautiful, and a part of
life. And life is precious.
 Deb Eskie is a resident of Somerville, MA and has
an M.Ed in creative arts education. With a
background in women’s studies, her focus as a writer
is to expose the woman’s experience through
unsettling tales that highlight the dilemma of sexual
repression and oppression. By combining the genres
of feminist and horror fiction she aims to not only
disturb readers, but deliver a message that is
informative and thought provoking.
In 2005 Deb’s play, Tell Me About Love, was
featured in the Provincetown Playwright Festival. She
has been featured in online magazines such as
Deadman’s Tome, Bad Moon Rising, Death Head
Grin, and 69 Flavors of Paranoia. Deb has also had a
number of short stories published through Pill Hill
Press, Post Mortem Press, Cruentus Libri Press, and
Short Scary Tales Publications.
Till Death Do Us Part by Sean Douglas

You broke up with me the week before Valentine’s

Day.
The week before, I came to visit, and we hugged
and kissed and fucked like we usually do. I said I
loved you, and you said that you loved me. When I
left, I said that I’d miss you. I was excited to see you
next Sunday when you were supposed to come and
visit me. You said you’d miss me too. I left you in the
darkness, curled up under the covers with just your
face peeking out. It made my heart hurt to leave, but I
had many miles to drive and deadlines to meet that
day.
In the darkness of the pre-dawn morning on the
way out of town, with the snow racing down across
the windshield, I received a text saying that you
already missed me and couldn’t stop thinking about
me. It made me smile and my heart swelled to know I
had such an awesome girlfriend.
Two days later, you said we had to talk.
It would have been different if I had seen it coming,
but it was like lightning from a clear blue sky. You
texted me with, “We have to talk”, which is never a
good sign.
You said that you wanted an open relationship. I
was less than excited about the whole idea. I asked if
it was someone else, and you said it wasn’t. I asked
why you wanted an open relationship, and you
explained that you felt claustrophobic. It felt like you
couldn’t do any of the things you wanted to do, and
you were sick of trying to live up to someone else’s
standards.
The only thing I was ever against you doing was
drinking till you puked or passed out, especially
around guys. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you. It was
that I didn’t trust them and their intentions. I know
that not every man respects women as much as they
should. Sometimes bad things happen to drunk girls,
and I didn’t want you to become a cautionary tale.
The only other thing I was against was you
hooking up with another guy, because that is the
opposite of what being in a relationship is about. I
didn’t think you were interested in anyone else,
because the only girl I was interested in was you. I
thought you felt the same way, because you said you
loved me and I thought that was what it meant to be in
love with someone.
Apparently, those two things were too much for
you and you had a different idea about what it meant
when you told someone you loved them.
The conversation was heartbreaking. You said “I
don’t know” a lot, and I thought that meant that you
weren’t sure and maybe you just needed some time.
I told you to take a week to think about it before you
did anything drastic. I told you that I loved you, but
you didn’t say that you loved me. It was a Saturday,
and a week later it was Saturday again... the day
before Valentine’s Day.
You said your mind was set. You were sure. It
was over. I asked if this meant that you weren’t
coming down to visit the next day for Valentine’s Day.
I knew you weren’t, but your answer surprised me.
You said that you had plans. When I asked what kind
of plans, you said you had a date. There aren’t words
sad enough to explain how completely that destroyed
me. So much for it not being someone else.
I started smoking again. I quit to be with you but
now that deal was done. I didn’t eat. I lost weight
and people at work kept asking me if I was okay, and
I said I didn’t want to talk about it.
 We were still talking via text messages. You didn’t
miss me as much as I missed you, and you weren’t
coming back anytime soon. You blocked me on
Facebook. Then on AIM. I deleted your number from
my phone so I wouldn’t send you text messages in
the middle of the night telling you that I miss you
when your absence became too much to bear. I
couldn’t handle the thought of texting you and you
reaching over and reading my message, then deleting
it and turning your phone off while lying in bed next to
your new boyfriend. When he asked you what the
text was you’d say, “Nothing” and turn back and press
your body against his.
I joined a gym and I pushed myself until it hurt. I
imagined breaking your new boyfriend into little
pieces, but it didn’t do anything to help siphon the
anger out of me. It just made me bigger and meaner.
I got a new tattoo. A heart with a china plate break
down the center with a banner over it that said
“NEVER AGAIN” in old school tattoo lettering over my
heart. To remind myself to never tell another woman
that I loved her. I would always be waiting for the
other shoe to drop.
I kept going to work, but I didn’t see the point of
doing anything. Everything reminded me of you. It
made life painful and worthless.
You said that you wouldn’t be able to text me
anymore because it was making your new boyfriend
upset. I didn’t hear from you again. Every time my
phone rang or vibrated with an incoming text
message I would pick it up hoping that it was you.
Hoping that you had broken up with your new
boyfriend and realized the mistake you had made.
That you really did love me and wanted to know if I
could find it in my heart to forgive you so we could be
together forever, till death do us part. The phone call
never came.
I wasn’t really interested in meeting anyone else. I
was still in love with you. Other women were just a
distraction. I kept living out of resentment, not
wanting you to think that I would kill myself over you.
Even if I did you wouldn’t know or care. It would only
make the people who really cared about me upset.
Blaming themselves for not doing enough to try to
help me. Not realizing that there wasn’t anything they
could do to help.
There was only one thing in the world I wanted and
that was you in love with me. If I couldn’t have that, I
didn’t want anything. Everything else was worthless
in comparison. I just kept going to work and going to
the gym and feeding and watering myself like a plant.
I became my own science project. Just how much
sadness can the human heart bear before it stops
working? Let’s wait and see.

They said It was the cure for the common cold.

You could get the shot at all of the local pharmacies.
It was relatively inexpensive, and they would run out
of the shots each week. No one wanted to get the flu
that year. People didn’t like to get sick.
I was always skeptical about getting immunized. I
had received enough immunizations to last me a
lifetime when I went through processing for the armed
services. I figured if it was just a matter of getting the
sniffles, I could tough it out, because who knows what
kind of fucked up ingredients they put into those
shots.
Maybe my skepticism was what saved me. Winter
came, and colds and flus compromised the immune
systems of the old and weak. They ended up getting
the flu despite the fact that they had been immunized
against it.
This flu was different.
The lungs would fill with fluid, and people would
stop breathing, but their heart would continue to beat,
functioning anaerobically. The oxygen deprivation
caused spontaneous degradation of mental capacity.
The only urges that remained were to move and eat.
People were determined not to use the word
“zombies”, but it was really the closest comparison.
I wasn’t surprised when it happened, and I kind of
didn’t care. I had been thinking about killing myself
for so long that something like this was almost a
blessing. I didn’t go out of my way to avoid infection.
It was easy. After the outbreak, all you had to do was
not allow any of the virulent matter excreted by the
victims of the epidemic to get past your immunity
barrier. It was a combination of the flu and the
immunization that activated the disease, and active
carriers could pass the disease to others through their
bodily fluids.
The government was slow to react, but set up
quarantine zones for uninfected individuals to live in.
The uninfected survivors were herded into these
areas of relative safety. Although the world was
under martial law, there was food and water, and
there was soap and hot water for showers, and
people tried to persevere despite the fact that the
bottom had dropped out of their world.
There was work to be done, and since over three-
quarters of the species had become something less
than alive, it was up to those left alive to do it. Those
that would not work did not eat, and that kind of
motivation inspired everyone to do their part in
helping to build and reinforce the walls surrounding
the safe zones. If you didn’t like living in the
quarantine zones, there was always the outside world
where people lived liked savages. If you didn’t have
anything they could use, they would fuck you and kill
you and leave you to rot. These outlaws would be
taken care of by the government when it was time to
reclaim the rest of the world, but for the time being it
was enough to keep them away from the quarantine
areas.
What was left of the government said that the
disease would recede when all of the people who
were infected ran out of food, since they lacked the
coordination to prepare food that wasn’t readily
available. The infected would starve and die, and as
long as no one was stupid enough to let the virus
compromise their immune system’s defense barrier,
then we could be relatively sure that nothing like this
would happen ever again. Unless we forgot about the
lesson there was to be learned from all of this. Or if
the virus ever mutated and became airborne. There
were more important things to worry about.

I asked to leave the quarantine area. They said I

was free to go. They warned me that if I left they
might not let me back in if I ever managed to make it
back in one piece. I said I didn’t care.
It had been a year. It was the week before
Valentine’s Day. All I could think about was you.
Every minute of every day I wondered where you
were and if you had survived. I wondered if you were
thinking about me and worried if I had survived. It
was unbearable. I dealt with it as long as I could until
I couldn’t sleep anymore. I had to go.
I walked back to my old apartment was. It was a
long walk, travelling by night and sleeping by day.
Salvaging food along the way. I spent the walk
thinking about what I was going to do. I wasn’t
scared. I had accepted my fate. Sometimes there
was smoke on the horizon from the cities that were
still smoldering ruins of what they once were, but for
the most part it was quiet and still.
When I got back to my former home, my van was
still parked on the street outside of my apartment. I
got in and started it up. I drove north towards the city
where you lived. The roads were relatively clear.
Most people were too sick to be driving. I didn’t have
to pay any tolls, but I slowed down at the toll plazas
anyway. Old habits die hard.
I went to your house. I remembered where it was,
up on the hill among the trees. I’m sorry for killing
your parents, but I’m sure you understand. I don’t
think it’s a crime if they were already infected,
although it was an awkward way to meet them for the
first time. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m here to
pick up your daughter.”
You were in your room in the basement. Someone
had been eating the dogs. When you noticed I was
there, you tried to attack me. I stepped aside and
tripped you. You went sprawling on the floor, and I
wrestled a canvas laundry bag over the top half of
your body.
 I picked up your glasses, put them in my pocket
and helped you get on your feet. You pretty much
went in whichever direction I walked you, taking little
baby steps. I guided you out of the house and to the
side door of my van and turned you to face me. I
pushed you back. The ledge of the floor knocked
your legs out from under you. I lifted your legs and
put them inside the van and closed the door.
I went back inside and packed a bag with clothes
for you. I found the chain that I gave you once. It
was my old wallet chain. When I got a new wallet you
said you wanted the chain for a choker, so I let you
have it. You put a padlock on it and sent me the key.
When I asked what the key was for you said that it
was the key to your heart and you were giving it to
me, because there was only one key and you wanted
me to have it.
When we broke up, taking that key off of my
keychain almost killed me. It was the worst thing I
ever had to do in this life before the epidemic began.
There were much worse things I had to do in the past
year but none of them hurt as much as putting that
letter in the mail.
The chain was on your desk, and the key was in
the lock. I scooped it up and dropped it into my
pocket.
On the ride back to my place, I winced with every
bump in the road. I hoped that it wasn’t hurting you,
trapped in the back inside of that bag. I tried not to
drive too fast and to avoid any potholes or rough
spots in the road. I did a decent job, but the winter
had been harsh and road maintenance wasn’t at the
top of anyone’s list.
When I got back to my apartment, I opened the
door to the side of the van and walked you in. I
locked you inside and went out to get provisions. I
went to the mall and picked up some handcuffs from
the novelty store and loaded up a bag full of dried
goods because you were a vegetarian and I thought
you would want them.
I got home and untied the knots to the rope around
your waist and took the canvas bag off. You tried to
attack me again, but I stepped aside and tripped you
again and you went sprawling. I came from behind
and grabbed one of your arms and got one of the
handcuffs around your left wrist. Then I flipped you
over and when you clawed at me with your right hand
I grabbed it around the forearm and clicked the other
handcuff around your right wrist. You scrambled to
your feet and I hoped that the handcuffs weren’t
hurting your wrists, but they didn’t stop you from
charging after me again and again.
I made it into the other room and closed the door
and leaned against it. After a while, the sound of you
thumping yourself against the door, trying to use
yourself as a battering ram, died down and I could
hear you making another sound, a disappointed
whine while staggering around in the next room
knocking things over. I took a cold shower and dried
myself off. I laid down, staring at the ceiling listening
until I fell asleep.
The next day when I opened the door to the next
room you were sitting on the floor, looking down at
your handcuffed wrists. When you saw the door
open, you scrambled back to your feet, staggering
towards me again. I grabbed you around the waist,
turning you around, pushing you in front of me while
your head arced back, taking bites out of the air. Your
hands clawing at me over your shoulder.
I managed to get you into the shower stall, and
turned on the water, before closing the shower door
and leaning against it. You were spattered with blood
and mucus and dirt and dog hair. I had no way of
knowing which of the blood spatters was yours, so I
had to try to get some of it off of you.
I remembered that time that you drank too much
and vomited in the back yard and I threw you in the
bathtub and turned on the shower to try to sober you
up but all it managed to do was make you cold, wet,
and angry. It wasn’t as funny anymore.
I opened the shower door and got in behind you
and did the best I could to use the soap to wash off
the accumulated gore, gristle and grime without being
bitten or scratched or getting anything in my eyes or
mouth. It was difficult, and when I was done my
clothes were as soaked and soapy as yours, but at
least your skin was clean.
Your skin had paled to the point of transparency. I
could see your veins clearly through your skin and the
whites of your eyes had yellowed. Symptoms of the
disease. I tried to dry you off with a towel, but you
kept trying to bite me, so I had to leave you damp. All
of this struggling was getting me exhausted.
I pushed you back into the living room. You only
thrust yourself against the door a few times before
you quieted down to whatever thoughts are
entertained by the dead.

The next day when I woke up, you were curled into
a ball on the couch with your wrists between your
legs. You were adorable. Until you woke up and tried
to claw my eyes out of my head.
I held your wrists in front of me and sat down hard.
We were both sitting down with our arms between us,
and every time you growled and tried to bite me, I
would squeeze your arms and push you down on the
floor. Then I would loosen my grip and let you sit up
again and you would try to bite me again. It took the
better part of the day before you finally figured out
that each time you tried to bite me, you would end up
sitting on the floor again. Finally you surrendered. A
disappointed expression came across your face, and
you made a whimpering sound.
I stood up and backed away from you into the
kitchen. You watched me, but didn’t try to scramble
up and attack me again. I reached into the cupboard
and took out a bag of dried tangerine slices and sat
down across from you on the floor. I opened up the
bag and dumped half of it onto the floor between us.
You watched my hands with rapt fascination. I took a
dried tangerine slice from the top of the pile and put it
into my mouth, chewed it and said, “See?” pointing to
my mouth, then the pile of tangerine slices, then your
mouth.
You followed my gestures and pouted, then
reached out and took a tangerine slice and brought
both of your hands, still joined at the wrist by the
handcuffs, up to your nose. You sniffed the tangerine
slice and made a sour face. I gestured that you
should put it into your mouth, and you put it in half-
heartedly, chewed it a couple times before working it
towards the edge of your mouth and spitting it onto
the floor.
I wanted to respect the fact that you had been a
vegetarian, but everyone knows what the undead
crave. I broke out a bag of beef jerky and put a
couple strips on the floor in front of you, and you
picked one up and jammed it up into your mouth
gnawing on it with a contented look. I suppose that
one’s moral imperatives from life do not necessarily
carry over to the other side of death.
I spent the day getting you used to having me
around without trying to bite me. At the end of the
day when I started to get exhausted, I went into the
other room and closed the door, and you didn’t try to
break it down. All I heard were the quiet sounds you
were making in the other room and your rheumy
respiration.

The next day when you woke up, you sat up and
watched me go over to the kitchen. I opened up
another bag of beef jerky and gave you two strips for
breakfast. You gnawed at them contentedly, making
little nonsense sounds while you chewed.
I poured a cup of water, and when I put my hands
under your chin to lift it up and pour water into your
mouth, you watched my hands out of the corner of
your eyes, but you didn’t try to bite me. I would have
to be insane to think that you weren’t thinking about it.
You took the water in and swallowed. I poured more
into your mouth and you swallowed and gasped.
You sat on the couch watching me as I walked
around the room. I pulled your glasses out of my
pocket and put them on the bridge of your nose, then
slipped the ear bows over your ears and adjusted
them. You wrinkled your nose, then blinked and
looked around. I took out a comb and I combed your
bangs, because I remember how particular you were
about your bangs being in the right place. Finally, I
took out the chain with the padlock on it, and when I
leaned forward to put it around your neck our eyes
stayed locked. You watched my wrists as my hands
fastened the lock.
There.
It wasn’t the same. It was just sad. You still had a
beautiful face and an admirable bone structure
underneath, but there was something missing from
inside your eyes. A comprehension that would never
return.
I left apartment to go for a walk. I needed some
fresh air.
While I was out walking I thought back to the time
that we used to spend together. How I would tell you
that I loved you and how you would say that you loved
me too. I thought about New Year’s Eve when we
were having sex while the ball dropped and I kept
saying, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” Because
it was the only way I could think of to express the way
that I felt about you at that moment, as if I were to say
it enough times that it would engrave itself into your
skin and you would know it forever.
When I came back you were still sitting on the
couch making happy noises to yourself. I thought
about Frankenstein and his Bride, both returned from
the dead, then returned to the dead. I remembered
you drew me a picture once. You drew it in red ink. It
was a picture of a couple standing outside of a Tunnel
of Love and they were both spattered with blood and
were dead and were holding hands. In a creepy font
you wrote, “Till Death Do Us Part” underneath it all
and while you were talking about the picture, you said
that the couple in the picture was supposed to be us
and that you could see us being married someday.
I believed you.
That night, I unlocked your handcuffs and
massaged your wrists. When I went into the other
room, I didn’t close the door. I turned the light off and
in the darkness I heard you enter and felt the
pressure as you put the weight of both hands, then
one knee, then the other onto the end of the bed. I
felt the weight shift as you crawled up the mattress.
I don’t care what happens next. I can feel you
leaning over me, your knees on either side of me, like
we sometimes found ourselves during sex, your
sweat dripping down onto my stomach. You’re too
cold to be sweating tonight, and I can smell your sour
breath as you lean down towards me.
If living means not being with you, then I would
rather be dead.
Till death do us part again.
Sean Douglas does not want to get to know you and
isn’t interested if you want to get to know him. He’s
not interested in coming to your town and making
small talk with you or meeting your unattractive
girlfriend. Sean Douglas is interested in smoking
cigarettes and drinking coffee and not sleeping. Sean
Douglas does not have any distinguishing scars or
marks and where he lives is none of your fucking
business.
Companionable As Solitude by Lisamarie Lamb

India Barnett – not her real name, but the name

she was going by for now, until the next time it
changed – flicked the lighter and held it to the corner
of the last of her IDs. There had been so many, a
surprising amount for one life, but this was it now, this
was the end of it. The flickering flame finally caught
hold, making its hasty way along the laminated
plastic, catching at her fingers as she held on.
Eventually she let go of it, letting it fall into the metal
bucket by her side, along with all the others.
There was her past, smoking itself to death in a
rusty bucket. That was what she had been. Who she
had been.
Who and what she was now was packed in a
second hand car – bought with her new ID and her
new money and her new self – which was waiting
around the front of the house. Waiting for her to jump
in and tear away from here, never looking back.
Maybe it would even work this time.
Maybe she would get away this time.
 She’d certainly done more on this attempt than any
of the other escapes she had tried. She’d changed
more. Deleted more. Hidden more. Killed more.
And still she thought it was all for nothing. But if
she gave in to that belief, it was over. Done. It was
finished.
Or she was.
She glanced around her, scanning the kitchen for
anything she might have left behind. Anything
important. Of course, everything would be left behind,
all the furniture, the knick knacks, the clothes that
wouldn’t fit into her case, the dead body – cut to
pieces – lying on the cold, hard floor… Everything that
had or hadn’t meant something had to stay because
she didn’t have room for it. Only the things she loved
best, or the things that would make tracing her easy,
had been crammed into the clunky car.
It wasn’t much.
She hoped it was enough.
As she was leaving the house, the light beginning
to fade as the sun began to make its way home, she
turned the key in the lock for the very last time and as
she did so, the phone began to ring. She could hear
it through the half-paned front door, the shrill old-
fashioned brrring-rrring calling out to the emptiness.
One look behind her at the car, another back through
the window and into the hallway at the screaming
culprit sitting on the flat pack desk, its wires and leads
hanging off and dangling down onto the floor.
Another ring. Another. Another.
But she knew she would never answer it. She
whipped the key out of the lock, posted it through the
letterbox for the new owners, whoever the bank
decided they would be, after the police had their way
with the place, and sprinted down the path, the ringing
in her ears following her as she went. She didn’t
know whether it was a real sound or just in her head
and it didn’t much matter.
It was him.
He had found her and she had killed him, but he
still wasn’t dead.
She was leaving just in time.
But each time it was getting closer and closer. He
was getting closer and closer. She knew it wouldn’t
be long before he caught her. One day she would
have to stop running.
For now, though, India Barnett – not the name she
had been born with, a million miles away from that
name now – turned the engine of her new old car over
and prayed that it would start. It did. On the third try.
But that was what happened when you paid less than
a thousand, cash, for something that should have cost
three times that at the very least.
That was what always happened.
It couldn’t be helped. Cash – little bits of cash –
left no trail. She couldn’t possibly afford to leave a
trail.
Once the engine was ticking over, India put the car
into gear, waved goodbye to the place she had been
happy in for a little while, and regretfully pulled away.
She had liked it there. The neighbours were pleasant,
friendly without being the sort who wanted to keep
popping in for coffee or keep you talking on the
doorstep. A wave and a smile, a nod and a brief hello
and that was it and that was all she needed.
All she wanted.
It was going so well. It had been just right, and, for
a bit, for a month, maybe six weeks, she had actually
thought that she might be able to stay. She had let
herself believe it and she regretted it now but it had
been good.
Until the phone calls began again.
 Until then.
India stopped at a set of lights, the red shining in
the dusk’s non-light, glaring in at her, smearing itself
across the contact lenses she was wearing. She’d
take them out soon. Try the glasses again. But only
when the itching scratching pain became too much.
It wasn’t much of a disguise, but if it was good
enough for Clark Kent…
A shrill, sharp honk sounded from behind her and
she jumped, bile rising in her throat at the sudden
shock of it. The light was green, and the driver
behind her was in a hurry.
With a deep breath and a shake of her head, India
raised her hand in her rear view mirror in apology,
muttered a curse under her breath disguised with a
smile, and drove off, the lights flipping to amber as
she passed through.
The apology was, apparently, not good enough.
The horn kept blaring and the man kept staring
through his windscreen, his angry eyes boring
through the back of India’s head, making her sweep
her eyes up to the mirror again, no smile now, no
hiding what she was saying. She raised her middle
finger, jabbed it in the air, and hoped the man would
get the message.
He got a message. Not the one that India had
intended, the one that would mean he would leave
her alone. He got a different message, and this one
told him to keep going, drive faster, and smash into
the back of India’s already bashed and battered car.
India braked sharply causing another, lighter,
collision. The cars bumped together on an otherwise
empty, quiet little street. The man revved his engine,
macho and threatening, and he stepped from the car,
cracking his knuckles, ready to go, ready to fight,
ready to rumble.
She didn’t have time for this.
The man she was running from could be
anywhere, could be watching right now, waiting for
the opportunity to rush in and attack. And this fool
with the attitude was putting her in danger.
Plus he’d dented her bumper.
India threw her door open, just missing the man’s
groin. He jumped back, startled, not expecting that.
“What the hell?” It probably hadn’t been how he had
planned to begin his rant. It was probably not what he
had wanted to say. But it was what came out, and the
voice was higher than India had expected it to be.
Higher and weaker. No wonder he was so upset, with
a voice like that.
She almost mentioned it, but she had to get this
over and done with quickly so she could get going
again. She looked around. No one. That wasn’t to
say there was no one there, though. He was crafty.
“I should ask you that.” India was calm, sure of
herself. On the outside. Inside her heart was
hammering so hard she could feel it chipping away
her ribs. Her stomach was twisted up and over and
around itself. “I mean, you’re the one who rammed
me, right?”
The man, red-faced and punchily annoyed, huffed
out a surprised breath. His fists were clenched but he
held them down at his side. Nice. What a great guy.
India spotted a wedding ring and pitied his wife. She
would most likely bear the brunt of this later. “You
were slow. Off the lights. You didn’t move.”
India cocked her head to one side, creased her
brow, composed her thoughts. “Have you heard
yourself? What you just said, did you listen? Did you
notice how ridiculous you sounded?”
She was pushing it, she knew. He was gritting his
teeth, grinding his jaw together. His feet were
stamping up and down. He looked like a toy soldier,
his arms so straight and still. India laughed. She
couldn’t help it. He looked so completely stupid.
He knew it, too.
He was backing away now, realising he had made
a mistake. Did he think her mad? Did he wonder if
she was going to lunge at him, stab him with some
concealed weapon? India hoped so. She fingered
the blood stained blade that was hidden in the deep,
dark pocket of her long coat, the blood – dry now –
peeling away and sticking in tiny pieces to her
fingertips.
She didn’t have to use it. “Insurance?”
That did it. The man ran back to his car, roared
away, his jacket caught in the door. It would be filthy
by the time he got home.
India withdrew her hand from her pocket and
rubbed it against her side, the rust coloured blood
neatly hidden in the black material. There was still a
reddish brown tinge to her fingers, but she would do
unless she was subject to a close inspection. Which
she wouldn’t be.
It was late and getting later and all she wanted to
do was to get to her new home arranged through a
friend of a friend of a very distant someone. She
hoped this would be the last new home. She hoped
she would be able to settle in, to stay there for longer
than a month or two. Because she liked the look of
this one. A cottage in a village on the edge of a
wood. It had a fireplace and wooden beams and low
ceilings and if it also had an inside bathroom and an
entire roof and a working kitchen it would be out of
her very limited league.
But as it was, broken and bowed, it was perfect.
It had looked good in the photos.
Now she just had to get there.
India climbed back into the car and was thankful
that the engine was still grumbling around her. There
was something else hovering around her. A smell; a
deep, dark and ugly scent that tickled at her memory
and rushed against her chest like an old, lost thought.
It didn’t take her long to recognise it.
It was him.
It was his smell. Aftershave and beer, cigarettes
and hair gel. And rotten mud.
It was him.
He had found her, and so soon. Too soon. She
wasn’t ready to do all that again. She drove, to get
away from the stink, to get away from him, and all of
it.
To get to where she was going.
But the smell remained.
Maybe, India thought, it was the car itself. Maybe
it wasn’t him after all. Because, really, how could it
be? Time and again she had asked herself similar
questions, and she never had an answer. She just
accepted that this was her life.
She had killed him.
She had killed him three times.
And perhaps, at long last, it was third time lucky.
Perhaps he was still dead, still lying on the kitchen
floor of her favourite last house, the bleeding finished,
the death real this time.
Not that it hadn’t been the other times. She had
checked and double checked, kneeling beside a dead
and empty corpse, listening for life, feeling for a pulse,
watching the essence of him drain away. Once she
had buried him. Once she had cremated him.
The last time she had just left him, knowing that it
didn’t matter anymore.
But, despite that, she did have hope.
If she ran far enough and fast enough and became
someone different enough, then she might be safe
again.
She had to have this hope.
Otherwise she would have died years ago.
She would have let him get her.
And so she drove.
The night came quickly, and India’s heart sank
with the sun. She had wanted to be settled in her
new home in daylight, had wanted to explore the
rooms and the facilities. She had wanted to seek out
the hiding places, and be aware of danger zones
before she slept.
But the angry man with his ridiculous car had
delayed her. And, of course, she had waited for the
other man. Her man. The one whom she killed and
killed and killed again and who followed her
nonetheless. The one who always came back.
Always grasping, always wanting. She had waited
instead of running.
Waited to kill him again.
***
A phone call. It always began with a phone call.
And in the background, when she answered it, India
would always hear sucking water, and a chorus of
frogs. She would hear the moon casting its shadows
over the swamp, and she would hear the mud as it
slurped and puked and grabbed and pulled her one
time lover to his final resting place.
She heard it and she remembered it.
After all, she had been there the first time.
She had manhandled his cold, stiff body into the
wanting water. She had pulled it from the boot of her
car, slammed it to the ground, finding solace in the
way his head – the one she had cradled so lovingly
once upon a time – smashed against the jagged rock
that was happily placed just so behind the car, and
dragged it to the edge of the swamp, kicking it so that
it rolled the rest of the way, tangling in amongst the
reeds and the dirt and the slickness.
She had been glad to do it.
He had deserved it.
He deserved it every time, but that first time was
special.
India was not one for dramatics, and she did not
enjoy causing a fuss, unless she had to. She had
opened the letter from her boyfriend’s girlfriend calmly
all that time ago – such a long time ago, when her
world had been perfect and normal and there had
been nothing wrong with it at all, or so she had
thought – and read it all the way through, down to the
apologetic signature, before deciding that she would
have to kill him. She thought about it. She planned it.
She carried it out. It was not a spur of the moment
thing.
Waiting. That had been difficult. That had almost
failed her. But she had done it. She had waited for
two weeks, following, watching, stalking her prey, her
boyfriend, her love. And another letter came. The
tone was weak and sorry, the words begging her to
confront her man, to dump him, because he was no
good.
And yet he and the other woman continued their
relationship.
From what India could see through steamed up
windows and what she could hear through curtains
closed in the daytime, the other woman didn’t think
the cheat was such a bad man after all.
The third letter came on the morning of his murder.
This one told the truth. The mistress wanted the man
for herself but, knowing him, knowing him well, she
understood he would never be strong enough to leave
India. Not of his own volition.
 India had to agree with that.
She was willing to help him move on.
It happened, as it always did, in the kitchen. Rat
poison in his curry, his favourite food. India enjoyed
watching him eat it, shovelling down mouthful after
mouthful. Not even tasting it, not the poison or the
intricately spiced sauce or the fragrant rice that she
had spent hours concocting, since it went down so
fast. And for once she wasn’t annoyed, she didn’t get
angry, she made no cutting comments about his
complete uncaring self. She just watched, and
smiled.
She kept smiling, and watching, and sitting still,
when he began to choke, even though the sound
made her throat close up. When he turned red and
then blue, and then very, very white, even though he
was pleading with her to help him. When he spewed
blood and curry and poisoned pellets all over the
kitchen floor, even though she knew she would have
to clear it all up.
She smiled until she was sure he was dead. Then
she cried because she had done a terrible thing and
her life had changed irreparably, and that was scary.
But the smile soon returned when she remembered
why she had done it, and that her life had been going
to change anyway.
At least this way it was her choice. At least this
way she held all the aces.
So it was done. India Barnett became a murderer
through choice and it didn’t seem so bad in the end.
Even disposing of the body. Even the thankless task
of making it look as though he had simply up and left.
Those letters, the mistress’s rambling tomes, had
gone a long way to helping with that little deceit.
Even all these things had not been a hardship.
She had not anticipated him coming back for her.
That had not occurred to her at the time.
India felt a pang of something as she rattled along
in her ancient new car. Not regret, not exactly. Not
regret in the killing, anyway. But perhaps regret that it
hadn’t been as final as she would have liked.
The first time had been three years ago. Three
years that felt like days and stretched like millennia.
And now every time she murdered him, it felt less
and less well planned. It felt less and less as though
it was supposed to happen. It felt less and less right.
Even though she still wanted to do it.
The cheating bastard.
 It wasn’t long after she had dropped him into the
murky muck that the phone calls came. Somehow a
dead man rotting in a swamp made a call to the
woman who had killed him.
He kept calling. And she kept hearing those
background sounds, and then a groan, a croak that
wasn’t a toad, and one word; vengeance.
The first time it had happened she had slammed
the phone down and cried herself to sleep in the
corner of the living room. The second time she half
anticipated it, half expected it, but half knew it couldn’t
possibly be.
Vengeance.
She heard it nonetheless and afterwards she sat in
the living room with the lights on and the television’s
volume as loud as it would go.
The neighbours complained, but there was nothing
else she could have done.
He was coming for her. She knew that for a fact.
She was sure of it.
Even though she had killed him.
After the third phone call, India began to pack. He
was on his way and she had to be gone before he
arrived, a ghost set on vengeance, determined to
avenge his own death. She had to believe it now.

***

India cleared her throat, bored of memories, just

wanting to start again. The car was running smoothly
now, settled into its own rhythm, getting her to where
she needed to be. And the smell was fading now.
Either that or she was getting used to it.
Not long now. Another few miles, half an hour’s
drive, perhaps, and she would be there. The music
station she had been listening to had long since given
way to long, drawn-out news, and she fiddled with the
dial, rifling through the frequencies, trying to find
something uplifting to listen to.
Vengeance.
There, amongst the static, was that word.
Whispered, almost missed, but there, barely hidden.
India scrolled back, daring herself to listen again.
Vengeance.
India screamed, pulled the car over without
looking, ignoring the blare of horns, the screech of
brakes and tyres. She sat, hands shaking, gripping
the wheel, her teeth clenched together so hard that
her jaw spasmed and clicked and throbbed.
He was close. Closer than he should be. Closer
than India had realised.

***

The phone calls came, no matter where she was.

After she had killed him the first time, after she had
dumped his body, after she had been frightened away
from her own house, she became someone else. She
moved, found a place, started fresh. But it made no
difference what she did – he always found her.
And sometimes he visited. If she was slow or ill-
prepared. The third time she had to move, after the
phone calls began yet again, she reached the front
door with no idea where she was going. She had
thought it was over. She hadn’t made a backup plan.
She opened the door, ready to run, despite all of that.
But he was there. Actually there. Dripping and
stinking, falling apart and oozing from wounds inflicted
post mortem by creatures living in the swamp,
chewing and ripping and devouring the body of a man
she had once loved.
He pushed past her, pushed her down and to the
ground, knocking the breath from her, knocking the
bags from her hands. He didn’t even look at her, and
for that she was grateful, and she almost – so very
nearly – crawled out of the door behind him,
escaping. But he reached down as he passed and
grabbed at her hair with broken, pus-filled fingers,
excreting putrescence down onto her, and dragged
her into the kitchen.
Where it always happened.
India looked at him then. Really looked at him.
The man she had loved and hated and destroyed. He
was decaying and vile, an unholy mess of a man.
She wanted to weep because she had made him like
this, she had done it and it was her fault. She pitied
the thing that had been him. Her heart broke, again.
As he loomed over her, his lips splitting as he
attempted a smile – a terrible smile – gushing putrid
bodily fluids over her, his hand clutching as best it
could a knife drawn from the block on the kitchen
counter, sharp and somewhat dirty where India had
failed to clean it properly, a strange thing to notice
when she was so close to death, she remembered
why she had done it.
Her anger returned.
 And with it came her loathing, and her strength.
She kicked out, crushing the dead creature’s leg,
snapping it as though it was nothing but a dry twig,
the crack of it echoing through the house. He fell, his
head splitting open against the laminate flooring, grey
matter and blood and bone spilling across the room in
a sudden wave. India wondered if the neighbours had
heard that. She wondered whether they might know
something was wrong, whether they might phone the
police.
But it didn’t stop her from stamping. Down and
down. Until his head was gone.
Yet still the body moved. Horribly, intolerably, he
wriggled and writhed, attempting to get up.
Attempting to enact his vengeance.
India could not let that happen.
She was going to get out alive. He had to die.
Really die. She had to get it right this time.
The gas oven was within reach. She switched on
the burners, leaving them to fill the room.
Then she was gone, a parting gift of a lit Zippo
lighter left near the kitchen door where the fumes
would eventually reach. She would miss that lighter.
But she would, she imagined, miss life more. So she
let it go.
She was sorry for the neighbours. She was sorry
for herself.
But she refused to be sorry for him anymore.
The car didn’t start, of course. A different banger
to the one she was driving in now, but still old, still
rusting and unreliable. It almost killed her then,
parked where it was outside a house doomed to die.
On the fifth turn it started. India floored the
accelerator and was halfway up the road when she
heard, felt, saw, the explosion.
Only then did she realise she couldn’t remember
the last time she had taken a breath.
She took one now.

***

There was the cottage, and in the dark it didn’t

seem too bad. It looked whole and almost like a
home.
The drive had been a long one, terrifying and
scratch-at-the-arms nerve-wracking, but she had
made it. She pulled up outside the house, one lone
candle burning in the window, a gift, India thought,
from the letting agent.
A candle to light her to bed.
India sighed, stretched, glanced in the rear view
mirror. Screamed. Scrambled for the door handle.
Fell out of the car and onto the muddy, unmade road.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak.
She had seen him.

***

Had it really only been that morning? Had it? The

phone calls had been coming for a week now, and
India was well versed in getting ready to go. She
wouldn’t be late in leaving this time; she wouldn’t
have to face him again.
She would just go.
That had been the plan, anyway.
As she packed and jammed her possessions into
the tiny rust bucket outside her temporary home, she
wondered whether that was the solution. Whether
running was the right idea. Whether it might be better
to simply sit and wait and get it right so that this was
the last time, guaranteed and final, that she would
have to leave and be reborn as someone else.
 She was so, so tired of changing. So, so tired of
moving. So, so tired…
Third time lucky, fingers crossed, touch wood.
She was ready, waiting behind the kitchen door with a
knife, a sharp and carefully polished knife. She had
tested it on a leg of pork and it had sliced through
nicely. It had stabbed deep inside pulled out again
neatly.
Of course, he would bleed. A little. There couldn’t
be much blood left in him now. But she would be
prepared for it nonetheless.
She waited.
He arrived an hour later, and when India heard him
crashing through the front door and shuffling slowly,
heart achingly slowly, through the hallway and to the
kitchen, she regretted waiting. She wished she had
gone, onward and downward, she would have had the
time.
It was too late now though.
He slammed the kitchen door, hard, as he passed
through it and the handle smashed into India’s
stomach, causing her to cry out in shock and not a
little pain. She dropped the knife and relinquished the
element of surprise in one fell swoop as the man-thing
turned to look at her.
Burned and black, eyelids gone, eyes glassy, lips
melted away now and teeth exposed through a
gaping hole in his cheek. His tongue was blue and it
endlessly probed the gap, snaking into the air and
then reeling back in again to the safety of the burnt
out mouth.
India had no time to scream. She had no time to
puke. She had no time to wonder how he had
recovered his head after the last time. All she had
time for now was to scoop up the knife and stab, stab,
stab. He went down quickly, easily, and he did bleed.
India’s hands were covered in red, sticky with it, but
there wasn’t enough in his body to mark her clothing
too much. She had chosen to wear a black jacket just
in case.
The creature stopped reacting.
And India stopped stabbing.
She began slicing.
Soon there was nothing left to slice. Nothing left to
cut. Nothing left at all.
It was then that she burned her old IDs, feeling
fairly sure, although not positive, that he was gone for
good this time.
 It was then that she left.

***

India got to her feet in a panicked jolt of energy

and ran to the house, not taking her eyes from the
car, trying to find him in the shadows.
Just because she couldn’t see him didn’t mean he
wasn’t there.
The key was where they had said it would be,
waiting for her, hanging on a hook next to the front
door. It took her an age to use it, and once she had
and was inside it was dark and damp and very, very
cold.
India could see her hand and not much else. She
felt her way along the wall, feeling sick, feeling tired,
feeling dead. The kitchen. She found her way to the
kitchen and slumped, sobbing, into a broken,
splintered chair set at a broken, splintered table.
A sound made her look up.
A clicking sound.
A skeletal hand rapping its fingers against a
broken, splintered table as the rest of its body sat in a
broken, splintered chair.
 Sitting opposite India.
Her dead lover held up his hand to silence her,
even though she couldn’t have spoken if she had
wanted to – her mind was as splintered as the
furniture by now.
“Right,” he croaked, frog-like and broken, “How
would you like to die?” He pointed to the knife, to the
lighter, to the jar of rat poison. To his foot. “I have to
say, I can’t recommend one over another.” He stood,
taking a step forward, his ruined leg dragging behind
him. “So why don’t we try them all, and you tell me
what you think?”
Lisamarie Lamb started writing in her late teens but it
was only with the birth of her daughter that she
decided to write more seriously, with the aim of
publication. Since that decision in 2010, she has had
over 30 short stories published in anthologies and
magazines.
In November 2012, Dark Hall Press published a
collection of her short stories with a twist, entitled
Over The Bridge. In November 2013, J. Ellington
Ashton Press released a second short story collection
entitled Fairy Lights.
She has collaborated on - and edited - a project
entitled A Roof Over Their Heads, written by six
authors from the Isle of Sheppey about the island
where she lives with her husband, daughter, rabbit,
and two cats.
http://www.themoonlitdoor.blogspot.co.uk
http://www.facebook.com/lisamarielambwriter
Cadavres de Désir by T. Fox Dunham

“Cadavers can always wait,” I told my ex-wife.

She led me down the stairs into the embalming room
of my family’s mortuary. I still wore my suit jacket and
tie. Jean had called and pulled me from my movie
date with Julia. I lied to myself that she did it out of
jealousy.
“She can’t. A special.” My ex-wife’s hair had
silvered in the last year, bleaching the long golden
trails. Crows clawed at her eyes, and seeing her age,
I felt mine. I’d married her as a girl near twenty, and
she’d just turned fifty. She led me over to the
embalming table and pulled back the white sheet,
exposing the face of my next subject. “Actresses.
Divas. Even in death, everyone kisses their cold
asses.”
Jennifer Sherwood lay out on the stainless table.
White shrouds covered most her body. Her still-
perfect and perky flesh, ending just below her
shoulders. The moment I saw her, floating like a
white phantom, I knew I lacked the will to ever be able
to release her back to the world.
 “Found dead a few hours ago by their maid. The
family paid, and the coroner did a fast job. Not like
the coroner had to go searching for the cause. He’ll
be making the announcement soon, so expect a pack
of wild dogs at the door.”
“I won’t let those leeches touch her.”
“Try not to get... how you get. I know you want
bragging rights—but wait. The family is counting on
our discretion.”
In the last fifty years since my grandfather started
the business, we had prepared several people of
fame for their final repose, and we’d had gained the
reputation of discretion. When someone powerful or
famous died in the San Francisco region, the families
usually came to us, especially when their loved one
died of an overdose or in the arms of their gay lover.
“We have our reputation,” she said.
I hesitated before approaching my table—my
canvas—and smoothed over my thinning gray hair
and adjusted my glass eye. Two years ago, Jennifer
Sherwood came to San Francisco to sign autographs
on Market Street, before the premier of her romantic
comedy, The Office Girl. That day, I hovered and hid
at the ropes, terrified to be seen, that she would look
over and see an old man and gag. Jean watched me
and sighed, so I broke my spell then finally
approached my embalming table, stepping humbly
with my hands out, seeking invitation to touch my
dream lover. The blood settled, blooming purple
blossoms along her neck and etiolating her skin in lily
white blossoms. Her soft blond hair poured like a
waterfall, nearly touching the drain in the floor. I’d
always been attracted to her type, and missing her
usual makeup and special effects, I realized how
much she looked like my ex-wife. I met Julia, my
current girlfriend, online, and I had no idea what she
looked like. She finally sent me a photo. I fell in love
with the same body type, face and hair. She was so
real, and I held my gloved hand just above her
forehead, daring not to touch, that she might break
like brittle candy from the pressure of my fingers.
I’d fallen in love with her several years ago, up late
on the night Jean left me, and I spent my nights
watching late movies while holding a .45 in my hand,
drinking until I had the courage to put a bullet through
my temple. Her movie came on, her first one: Sexy
Diner. She played a libidinous waitress who slept
with all the older truck drivers while her best friend,
the star, found true love with the short-order cook.
Absolute trite. But I couldn’t break my gaze from her,
and the more I drank, the more real she became,
reaching out from the screen. I put the gun away.
“Something from a dream,” I whispered. I
followed the curve of her shoulder, down to the soft
breast covered by a towel, and my cock hardened. I
put took off my jacket and put on an apron.
“They wanted my best,” Jean said. “But all I had
was you.” I ignored the barb. “Just get it done fast.”
“Leave me alone with her.” Jean shot a silent
stare then left the mortuary, heading upstairs.
My phone jingled. I knew it was Julia. She’d
gotten home from the movie and texted to let me
know she was safe. We went to see Jennifer
Sherwood’s most recent opus—a romantic comedy
with some British actor. When that pompous prick
held my Jennifer, I squeezed the hand rests of my
seat. I got through the film by ignoring the plot and
fantasizing myself in the movie: how she’d fallen in
love with an older mortician, restored my youth, my
vitality. She’d even teach me how to dance. The
movie would end with our marriage and a gentle love
scene.
 I even recorded dialogue from her movies onto my
phone and played them back when I needed comfort
or love or to satisfy my lust. I edited and mixed many
of the lines to create personal dialogue, so she would
just be speaking to me. I took out my phone, found
an appropriate track and held it by her pale lips:
Hello Lover. My arms have missed wrapping
around you.
“I’ve missed you too, my love. Lily of the valley.” I
ran my finger down her forehead, touching her cheek.
Her cold skin shocked my senses. I expected lava
pouring under the skin.
“What happened to you?” I sat down at my desk
and moved away the folders. I pulled up the
coroner’s report: Mrs. Sherwood died from cardiac
arrest. A percentage of crystal meth was found in the
liver and kidneys. Stomach content was empty…
“Too gentle for this world. You escaped the only
way you could.” I kissed her forehead. “I’ll take care
of you. Keep you safe.” I thought I would be
mourning, weeping like a lost lover, but here she was,
beautiful and bright. She slept and would soon wake,
my messiah. I tugged on my rubber gloves and
removed chemicals from the closet. I judged her
weight at about one-hundred and ten pounds. I didn’t
need to weigh her. I’d been estimating her weight for
years, so I mixed sixteen ounces of formaldehyde and
methanol with two gallons of water. “It’ll be gentle,
love. I promise. I’ll always be gentle.” I reached for
my phone and played another track:
I know you’ll be gentle, but sometimes I want it
hard.
My cock twitched, but I ignored it. I had to be
professional. Still, my fingers tingled as I prepared
the body for embalming. My head spun from the
acidic scent of the chemicals, and I floated to her,
lying prone, just for me.
“I’m going to feel your muscles now. It’s like a
massage.”
I played another track:
Touch me like that. I’ll melt.
I giggled, enchanted by her voice, and I felt down
her shoulders, her arms, checking for rigor mortis.
Some remained in the upper arms and lower thighs,
and gently, I took her limbs and worked them,
massaging out the tension, feeling her slender body in
my hands. I fetched my equipment: two aneurysm
hooks, one small pair of locking forceps, one pair of
cannula forceps, an adjustable drain tube and hose,
scalpel, twine and scissors. I bled my hose while the
fluid mixed, then I made the incision and pressed in
the tubes to pump and drain. I finished and activated
the pump. She lay there in peace, a sleeping angel.
Don’t leave me alone. I’m scared of the dark.
“I’ll hold you through the night.” I sat on the stool
next to her body and held her hand while the
chemicals suffused through her body, preserving her
youth. “You’ll never grow old, and the world will
remember you forever like this. My gift.” I kissed the
incline of her breast, pressing my lips hard down on
her skin, warming her flesh back to life. Then I
clutched her hand and spoke from my soul, saying
things I could never admit to anyone else.
“I’ve never known you in life, but I could feel
intimacy with you. I’ve never felt that connection with
anyone. I lie to Julia when I tell her ‘I love you’. Just
like I did with Jean. But I want to make it work with
Julia. I’ve got to. She’s my last chance at
happiness.” I poked through my phone, finding the
proper track for Jennifer’s response. I already knew
the dialogue in my head, but it made it real to hear it.
 You make me so very happy.
“How can I? I’m an old man. I’m a ghoul. A
mortician.”
I don’t care about that. I love you for what’s on the
inside. Love me forever?
The pump hummed, pouring fluid and draining
from the body. I stroked her arm. “I can’t. I just can’t.
I’m in a relationship. She’s a good woman, and I
really think she loves me.”
I’d never stop loving you.
“Damn it. Why did you have to come into my life
now? Julia doesn’t deserve this.” My eyes wet with
tears. How could I hurt Julia? She’d been devastated
in her divorce, destroyed by her ex-husband. I met
her in a Jennifer Sherwood fan chatroom, and I’d held
her hand virtually through many long nights,
encouraging her to get treatment for her addictions, to
rebuild herself. The relationship had followed
naturally enough. She’d even moved closer to San
Francisco, living in a dive apartment in the Tenderloin
district just to be closer to me and got a job at the
meat packing plant by the funeral home. We talked
about getting a house together soon, even getting
married again.
 I don’t want to make things harder on you.
“Wait. Jennifer.”
I’ll leave you then.
“No! I need time to think.” We’d bury her
tomorrow, to be eaten by worms. My stomach
erupted with acid at the thought of her beauty
devoured by nature, recycled. Perfection had been
achieved. Why would God need life to continue? “I
just need some time.” I squeezed her hand, feeling
her bones grind in my grip. I knew we could never be
parted now, and as much as I wanted to deny it, I
would never be able to leave her side. I still couldn’t
admit it to myself and hurt Julia. I’d promised her my
life, given her my soul. How could I know this would
happen?
Through the night, we sat in silence. I held her
hand. Julia texted twice more, but I let the messages
dangle in the ether. Near dawn, as I dozed off by her
side, I heard a ruckus upstairs. Footsteps stomped
across the ceiling. I called my ex-wife.
“The media has arrived,” she said. “Remember
discretion. The family has scheduled the service for
tomorrow.” I choked down acid, running out of time.
 I finished the embalming and let her drain, then I
wrapped her body up in white sheets. It would only
be a short distance to my apartment. I lived in some
apartments attached to the meat packing plant,
keeping close to my work. The foul smell of lard
sometimes got to me, but as a mortician, I’d learned
to train certain odors out of my awareness.
I checked the mortuary door. No reporters
lingered like jackals waiting to feast on the dead.
Shrubs and weeping willow branches concealed the
lower door behind the two-story building, and I
fetched Jennifer and carried her in my arms.
It feels so good in your arms. I’d gone crazy, but
then I’d been sane my whole life, keeping my head
low. I lied to myself that I’d bring her back for the
funeral, that I just wanted some private time with
Jennifer. I slipped out of the mortuary and into the
bushes. I spotted a reporter hanging around the side,
smoking a cigarette. I pressed my back against the
brick wall and waited until he turned his back, then I
slipped by, keeping close to the building. I found
cover behind the meat packing plant, walking along
the freight train line, and made my way up the back
staircase to my apartment.
 I sat Jennifer Sherwood on the side of the bed
while I moved the antique embalming equipment off
the mattress. I collected old pieces and was going
through a box, looking for pieces to sell to ghouls on
eBay. I caressed the long tip of the injecting needle
then set it on the dresser, and I moved Jennifer over
in bed, pulling away the sheets. I gazed down her
body, the tiny curves of her breast, her flat stomach,
sloping hips. She’d shaved her pubic hair, expressing
her youth, her perfect glowing flesh. I nearly rubbed
myself in front of her but didn’t want to freak her out.
There’d be time enough for that later. I didn’t want to
push her, and I worried she might feel vulnerable
naked. In my closet, I had some of Julia’s things for
when she slept over, and I found her white short
nightie. I lifted Jennifer up and slipped it over her
shoulders then picked up her hips and brought the
rest down over her body. I popped out my glass eye
and dropped it into a shot glass on the dresser.
“I’m a freak,” I said, guarding the vacant socket in
my skull. “I crashed my truck and lost the eye a few
years ago. Too many long island ice teas one night.
I’m lucky no one else was hurt.”
You are always beautiful to me.
 “My lily of the valley. There now. You’re safe,
love. We’re safe.”
We can’t do this forever.
“Of course we can.”
What about . . .?
“I don’t know. I just need some time to work it
out.” I lay down with her in bed.

* * *

I awoke, still pressing her lithe body to me. I’d

shifted her over in our sleep, laid her on her side and
wrapped my arm around her chest. I kissed the back
of her head and took in a mouthful of hair. Her
conditioner tasted of perfume and strawberries. I
could still smell the faint lavender of her body lotion.
“I will give you a bath, today. A gentle bath to
wash your hair and body.” She lay silent in my arms,
still waking, still coming to life in my life. I found my
phone, tossed off the side of the bed in my
exhaustion, and I played a track:
I want you to put me on my knees and take me
from—
 I realized I’d hit the wrong track, stopped the
player and found an appropriate mp3:
This is our special day together.
I inserted my eye then turned her around to face
me and pressed my mouth to her cool lips. I fed my
tongue into her mouth and explored her range of
teeth, her swollen tongue. She tasted of bitter
chemicals, and her mouth deflated from the pressure.
I pulled away.
“Was that too soon?”
I’m going to savor it forever.
“God. Me too.” I noticed on the phone that my ex-
wife had left ten messages—voice and text. She’d
marked them urgent. I ignored them.
The door to my studio apartment opened,
exposing the side bedroom nook to the hall outside. I
got up and found my .45 in the top dresser drawer,
under my socks. I’d been robbed twice before—
mostly junkies who lived on the railway behind the
buildings. Also those reporters would be hunting my
love like vultures. I aimed, protecting Jennifer.
“Jesus Christ, Raul.” My ex-wife stood in the
doorway of my studio apartment and saw me and
Jennifer lying in the bed together. She slammed the
door shut behind her. “It was only a matter of time,”
she said. She held hand over her mouth and ran to
my small bathroom. I heard her gagging and
retching.
I should leave.
“Don’t worry, love. I’ll handle this.”
I like it when you protect me. I belong to you.
Her words hardened my manhood, but I controlled
myself.
“Look,” Jean said. “I don’t know what this is. I
don’t give a shit. But I’ve got a house full of reporters,
and the family is screaming that I deliver the body.
I’m stalling for you, but shit.”
“You’re not taking her from me.”
She lit a cigarette. “What do you think is going to
happen? That’s a cadaver. You’ve really lost it.”
“She’s everything I’ve ever wanted. The
difference between life and death is just a matter of a
few degrees. Love lives beyond death.” I held
Jennifer. A few strands of her blond hair came off in
my grip, yet I pulled her close to me, holding her to
my chest, showing my ex-wife the strength of our
love. I still had the gun close, but I pulled a sheet
over the piece. “Don’t test me,” I warned.
 “If our reputation wasn’t at stake, I’d throw your
ass to the dogs. But this hurts everyone.”
“I never wanted to hurt anyone.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” she said, puffing on the
cig’. “Just get her back to the shop. I’ll bring all the
reporters to the viewing room and tell them I’m
making an announcement. Christ, Raul. We’re on
CNN. We’re on fucking CNN.”
“She’s staying with me.”
Jean sighed, put out the cigarette on the bottom
her shoe and tossed it into the sink. She frowned,
bunching her eyebrows, and I huddled up to Jennifer.
“You always have to make things so damn difficult,”
she said. “Fine.” She leaned over and grabbed
Jennifer’s slender arm. I held my love tight by the
other arm, and Jean pulled like a stubborn child who
refused to share their toys. I played my phone with
my free hand.
Don’t leave me!
Jean looked down at my phone, her eyes wide
with shock, then she laughed. “Jesus Christ. You
need to be locked up.” On the track outside, a freight
train crawled down the countryside. The clatter
rocked the apartment, and we had to yell to hear each
other.
“She’s real and alive and mine. I’m not going
back to the emptiness before. It’s winter always
there.” She resumed pulling, sliding Jennifer from my
grasp.
No! I want to stay with you lover.
Jean rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what’s worse.
You’re in love with a cadaver, or that bad corny
dialogue?” She pulled Jennifer off the bed, dropping
her on the hardwood floors. “You really thought you’d
get away with this? The family wants the body.
They’d notice it missing.”
She was right. The family would make a fuss and
expose me. They wanted a body. I looked over my
ex-wife. It could be done with some skill and
distraction, but I hesitated. I didn’t know if I could be
that guy. Jean leaned down to pick up the body. My
beloved cried out, and the terror in her voice snapped
something inside me, a carnal instinct. It pushed me
over the moral boundary. I had to protect my mate
even if it meant spilling blood. What was life and
death anyway but the difference of a few degrees?
I grabbed the .45, closed my eyes, thought of
Jennifer’s smile and fired. The percussion of the train
obscured the gun’s report. I opened my eyes, afraid
that I’d missed. I’d never fired a gun before, and my
arm echoed from the force. Blood dripped from
Jean’s forehead, and she slumped forward, collapsing
on the ground. She wasn’t dead, just asleep. No one
really died.
I picked Jennifer up from the floor and laid her in
bed, stretching out her arms and legs. I adjusted the
pillow, and she gazed into my eyes with such love. I
could feel her inside me. For the first time in my life, I
understood intimacy. I no longer needed to pretend
my love.
“I’ll be back,” I said. I found the sheets I’d used
the night before then knelt down by my ex-wife’s
body. I studied her face, her hair. She was several
inches too tall, but that could be fixed with a skilled
hand and a bone saw. It was easy enough to sew a
body back together like repairing a doll. I had
decades of experience to draw from. It would be a
tough sell to her fans; however, the dead never
resembled their living counterparts anyway. All
anyone would perceive would be Jennifer Sherwood
from the screen: no longer a living person but an icon.
“I’ll be back soon, my love. I have to go to work so we
can be together.”
I kissed her lips, no longer noticing the cold of her
flesh. I covered her head and obscured her body with
some pillows.

* * *

I moved my ex-wife’s body back to the mortuary.

Some of the workers at the meat packing plant
watched me through the greasy windows, but they
were used to such sights working next to a funeral
home. I hurried, worried Julia would be on break from
the plant and looking out. I still had to deal with my
relationship, but I pushed it from my mind. I took
Jean through the back entrance then went to work:
embalming the body and adjusting her appearance. I
dyed her hair, painted the face with heavy makeup,
hiding the years, the age, the lines from all the
frustration I’d caused her. I made her so lovely again,
like when we’d first met, painting a muse mask over
her visage. From a distance, she resembled my
Jennifer, and no one would be looking too close. The
cameras would lie for me, play an accessory after the
fact. They’d see her as they remembered her. No
one mourns the dead. We only mourn ourselves.
I phoned the assistant manager, Lucy—a little Nazi
who worked for my ex-wife. Jean had taken the
funeral home in the divorce, taking over my family’s
business. “The body’s ready. Jennifer Sherwood. It
was a mess. Get it ready for burial.” I abandoned my
ex-wife on the stainless steel table, leaving all the
preparations to the staff. Before I left, I kissed my
wife’s forehead.
“People will worship your grave and leave you
flowers. It’s more than any of us can have. Enjoy.”

I got back to the apartment in the late

afternoon and found the door unlocked—probably the
cops. I knew it couldn’t last forever. I’d pull my gun
on the police and die in sweet oblivion, thinking of
Jennifer. Julia sat on my couch, legs crossed and
sipping a beer. “Hey baby,” I said, trying to contain
myself. She couldn’t be here. Not now! I’d almost
forgotten her. I wished she’d go away and I wouldn’t
have to hurt her.
“You’re not answering your phone. I don’t know if
you heard, but Jennifer Sherwood died. I needed
your comfort. I’ve been up all night trying not to drive
to the liquor store.” She sipped the beer, letting me
know how I’d failed her. “I think I felt it when she left
the world.”
“I know. I know.” I went to the kitchen and got a
beer. “Work is crazy. My ex-wife is on my back
constantly.”
“It takes a few seconds to send a text.”
I sighed and sat down next to her on the couch,
but I didn’t touch her. I kept space between us, and I
knew what it communicated. She’d cut her light hair
short, down to her shoulders, and she shifted her
shoulders, causing it to bounce. “It’s happened,” she
said. “I knew it would. I drive people away.”
“What’s happened?”
“I’m not some idiot cheerleader,” she said.
“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” I said,
quoting the bad dialogue from Jennifer’s movie, from
all bad movies. “But when you understand, you’ll
understand.”
She squeezed her cheeks and her eyes
dampened. I took her hand. “Oh baby. Look, this
doesn’t mean it’s the end. Maybe we could be mature
about this. I haven’t stopped loving you. You’re
starlight. It’s just there’s a sun burning in my sky. I
met someone.”
“Make some sense! How isn’t it over?” She
sipped from her beer and calmed herself. The
apartment reeked of chemicals along with a faint
sweet scent of decomposition, and I only just noticed
it. I’d grown accustomed to the brine and bitters.
“We could do an open thing.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know if I feel
comfortable with that.”
I didn’t want to tell her, show her. I knew she’d run
off and fetch the police. They’d take Jennifer away.
Still, we were so obsessed with the actress. I had to
share it with her, to enjoy her envy even if she was
disgusted, revolted.
“She’s in the bedroom,” I said. “I’m surprised you
didn’t see her.”
“That whore is here?” Her lips straightened, and
she tightened her fingers into a fist. “I’ll fucking break
her head.” She shot up from the couch, and I tried to
get between her and the bed. “Wake up, bitch.”
“It’s not like that,” I said.
Julie yanked off the sheets, revealing Jennifer
Sherwood wearing Julie’s brief white nightie. Her
face was turned away, lying on the pillow. Julie
leaned down and pulled her hair, and a tuft ripped off
in her fist. I grabbed Julie by the waist and pulled her
off. My cock hardened, watching the ladies fight on
the bed.
“What’s wrong with the bitch? Is she drunk?”
“Look,” I said. I turned her head. “Really look.”
To help her recognize, I grabbed my phone and
played an appropriate line:
We’ll always be friends. No one can take that
away from us.
“How the hell?” Julia backed away.
“Overdose. Maid found her this morning. They
have a summer home outside of the city. She ended
up on my table.” I closed my eyes, waiting for the
inevitable disgust, the harangue then for Julia to run
to the police.
“She’s angelic,” Julia said, looking at my Jennifer
with awed eyes. She giggled and put her hand over
her wide mouth.
“You’re not going to the police?”
“I could never come between you two. I can’t
move mountains. I wouldn’t want to. I’m happy for
you two.”
“So you’ll consider it? The three of us?”
 “Let’s sleep on it,” she said. She laid down on the
bed and curled up around Jennifer Sherwood then
stroked her blond hair, softly, gently, moving into what
looked like a familiar rhythm with the actress, one
she’d told me before she’d played out in her mind
every night before bed. I put away my eye, curled up
on the other side; and in the early evening, we both
slept with Jennifer between us.

* * *

I woke in the dark to whispers. Female voices

scratched in the dark, and I pretended to sleep,
undisturbed by their conversation. It turned me on to
hear them speaking in secret, and I had to steady my
fast breathing so I didn’t alert them. I caught them in
mid-conversation. I imagined I’d hear declarations of
love, the words of a teenager lost in lust. I knew how
lucky I was that Julie had accepted the current state
of our relationship. We could all share, as long as I
knew Jennifer Sherwood wanted me more.
“I have some money,” Julia whispered. “We could
get away. Drive to Canada. My family used to take
me to Ottawa when I was a little girl. It’s peaceful up
there, away from the insane world. We could begin
again.” I shared Julia’s dream. It just might work.
We could all get away and be together, beyond any of
society’s judgments. Then I heard another voice, so
similar to Jennifer’s in her movies, down to the tone
and diction. Julie could mimic Jennifer’s so well when
we made love, acting out scenes from her movies.
“I love you so, Julia.” It pinched my chest to hear
her say it to another, but I had to sacrifice if this was
going to work. I nearly flinched and spoke, but I
remained silent and still so they could have their
moment.
“I know where his gun is,” Julia said. “It’s right by
the bed.” Why did she need my gun? “He’ll never let
us go, not that control freak. We have to do it.”
I waited for Jennifer’s response. I didn’t doubt her
love. “Then we’ll be together,” Jennifer said. A sob
choked my throat, and I stifled it. I’d fooled myself.
Movie stars were narcissists.
“Tomorrow then but before he wakes up. I don’t
want to fumble in the dark for a gun. Then we’ll take
his body over to the plant and grind him up. The
processor I operate can ground a cow in a minute.
America will eat him in hamburgers.”
 I waited for them to fall asleep, holding back my
sobs. I listened to a wet sucking noise as they kissed,
and when they finally settled, I got up, put on my robe
and prepared, careful not to wake them. I forgave my
Jennifer. She was such a gentle soul, easily misled.
I’d show her the way. I’d show her the light.

* * *

I stayed awake all night and watched the sun rise

through the curtains. I waited for Julia to stir. I could
feel her shaking on the mattress, nervous before her
moment. She slipped out of bed, put on a robe; and I
leaned over and kissed Jennifer on her cold lips. I’d
warm them later with hot water, give her a warm bath.
Julia searched my dresser for my .45, knocking over
some of the antique embalming artifacts, found the
gun and aimed it at my head. She stood at my side of
the bed. Her hand shook so bad I didn’t think she’d
be able to pull the trigger.
“I didn’t know this was going to happen, Raul.
And I can’t see beyond the burning sun in my sky.
She possessed me. I’m not myself. I’m a giant
screen playing all her movies.”
 “We can still be happy,” I said.
“You’ll never let us go, and I can’t share her.
There are some things between women that men
can’t understand.”
“We can share,” I said, knowing I didn’t really
believe that. It wouldn’t be long before I absconded
with Jennifer, running far away south with my truest
one. “Just put down the—” She pulled the trigger.
Click. The gun declined to report. She pulled the
trigger again several times, growing frantic. I took the
clip out of my robe pocket and dropped it on the bed.
She howled and held the gun like a club. I got out of
bed.
“It’s my sun!” she yelled. “Lighting my world. My
desire!” She lunged at me with the .45, aiming to club
me hard and probably keep beating my skull to a
pulp. I reached over and grabbed the long
embalming needle from the dresser and drove it
through her stomach, straight through the other side
of her soft body. Her eyes bulged, and she reached
down in disbelief, assessing her wound, grabbing the
metal tube. Julia choked out globs of blood. She
tried to speak and reached for Jennifer. Jennifer
didn’t reach back. I grabbed my phone from the floor
and played a track.
Don’t be afraid, kiddo.
Julia smiled, comforted, and her eyes calmed.
She collapsed to the floor and stopped breathing. I
wept for her. I hadn’t meant it. I didn’t mean any of it.
I wrapped her body up in dirty sheets pulled from the
hamper and cleaned the blood up from my hardwood
floor so Jennifer wouldn’t have to see it.

* * *

I put in my damn eye then helped Jennifer out to

the couch so we could cuddle and watch television for
the day. I didn’t bother calling out from the funeral
home. The real world no longer turned. It was just
me, and Jennifer was my center, my molten core. I
noticed her skin had started to peel off her neck.
“You poor thing,” I said. “I can fix that with some
resin.” I’d brush up on my taxidermy, and I knew they
were doing amazing things with plastic resins for art
exhibits displaying human bodies. I could preserve
her forever—beauty never fading, forever mine of my
desire. We watched the news, showing scenes from
her funeral, and my stomach ruptured over what we
saw.
The family is demanding DNA tests to determine
the true identity of the body buried. . .
I knew what it meant. They’d come as Julia and
my ex-wife had come. They’d take her from me.
Considering her fame, there’d be a manhunt. I would
become a tabloid sensation.
I cogitated on other avenues of escape to a place
where they could never find us. I knew of only one—
knew it well from my work—but I had to ensure we’d
never be separated, to finally achieve the fabled
intimacy that had haunted and eluded me since
childhood. Then it hit me. I lived next to a meat
packing plant. The county liked to keep all its
unsanitary businesses located in one sector.
I dressed Jennifer Sherwood in Julia’s summer
dress, and she glowed among the golden sunflowers
patterned in the fabric. I did her hair and found a
plastic flower from old bouquets in boxes that had
been thrown out from my work. I placed it in her
golden hair and set her eyes in azure shade from
Julia’s makeup in the bathroom, just like her first
movie when I fell in love.
 I carried my love from my apartment, her arm over
my neck, and we danced on the way, following the
steps of the old black-and-white stars from the
musicals on AMC. Two cars parked outside the
building, probably police watching the apartment,
waiting for a search warrant. We waved at them and
made our way into the meat packing plant, slipping in
through the backdoor where I often went to meet Julia
after work.
The roar of the machinery deafened us, and I held
her close, smelling her skin—the subtle scent of
lavender among chemicals. I carried her softly up the
scaffolding, jogging ahead of any complaining staff
wearing plastic hats and goggles. I didn’t give them
time to react and made my way to Julia’s station,
above the giant metal cylinder. Its teeth spun and
chomped, grinding cow flesh, grinding it to be packed
as ground beef. It took some effort to climb up on the
fence guarding the catwalk with Jennifer. I took out
my glass eye and threw it into the plant.
“We’ll be together, forever, always. They’ll never
be able to separate us. Immortality.”
Take me to heaven.
I pushed off the fence and dove to our forever.
T. Fox Dunham resides outside of Philadelphia PA—
author and historian. He’s published in nearly 200
international journals and anthologies. His first novel,
The Street Martyr was published by Gutter Books this
October, followed Professional Detachment, a literary
erotica from Bitten Press and followed by Searching
for Andy Kaufman from PMMP in 2014. He’s a cancer
survivor. His friends call him fox, being his totem
animal, and his motto is: Wrecking civilization one
story at a time.
Site: www.tfoxdunham.com.
Blog: http://tfoxdunham.blogspot.com/.
http://www.facebook.com/tfoxdunham
Twitter: @TFoxDunham