BONES

by Yolanda Olson

  I have no more words to offer Abigail. I have nothing left that would be a comfort to her, so I don’t waste my breath. Instead, I simply get to work.

  Dropping the poker to the side, I take the sheers in both hands, raise them high above my head, and bring them down with full force.

  She gurgles, coughs up a small amount of blood, and her body writhes. She’ll go into shock soon and then she’ll be as okay as she can be impaled on my living room floor.

  I sit down to her right, and slide the poker into her hand then turn my back to her. I close my eyes and wait patiently before she starts to strike me like I thought she would.

  And just like that, the pain is back. The moments I thought I had lost to Verona are back again as the poker scratches down my back. She’s not strong enough to lift it right now, but the scratches, they’re drawing blood, and that’s more than enough for me. I need this pain, I deserve it, and I sure as fuck have earned it.

  “Harder, please,” I say quietly.

  I can hear her behind me, still gurgling, trying to hit met with the poker instead of raking it down my back, but it’s to no avail, and I take a small amount of pity on her.

  Pity amuses me.

  It’s not something I feel often, but I reason it’s because she’s her friend, so I turn to face her and remove the poker from her hand.

  “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” I say to her, tilting my head to the right. “Would you like it to be over now?”

  She turns her face away and coughs, another spurt of blood covering her face. She won’t answer me, but she doesn’t have to. I know she wants the pain to stop, and I know that I’m the one that holds that power now.

  The only question is how will I do it? Since she won’t answer me, I only see one way.

  “Last chance, Abigail. Would you like it to be over now?” I ask her softly, crouching over her body.

  She turns her face toward me, slowly, shaking, and spits blood onto my face. I close my eyes so that I can wipe the blood away then I open them to look at her again.

  Like a wounded animal, her eyes are still trying to intimidate me. Her face, while contorted in pain, is wearing a mask of fear.

  I place my hands on the top of the sheers, gripping them firmly, when she finally speaks.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” she asks in gasping breaths.

  “Because you were foolish enough to say yes,” I reply simply.

  She lets out a guttural sound as I pull on the sheers; down, raggedly, all the way until I hit her pelvic bone. That’s the only thing that stops me. While her eyes are wide and her breaths are becoming more shallow, I reach down and begin to pull her stomach open, each side to its place. I feel something odd when the warm blood touches my hands. I know what I need to do in order to consider this a successful experiment. I know what should happen, to know that I am genuinely ready for her.

  She’s still alive, but barely, as I pull my pants off. My cock is hard and ready as I carefully pull my boxers off around it. I have to do this quickly because I find it boorish to fuck the dead.

  I crouch over her and very carefully lower my cock into the gaping flesh that’s covered with blood, and I fuck her. I fuck her until I can feel her insides move, until I slip in between her intestines, and the slithering feeling reminds me of the neck that I had curiously inserted myself into so long ago.

  It’s warm, wet and welcoming, and I can’t help myself. I drop my knees to either side of her body and continue fucking her until I see the light go out of her eyes. Until I realize that I’m losing myself too far in the moment, until I grit my teeth and cum deep inside of her.

  It was more the sound of the blood, the warmth of it, that helped me get off as quickly as I did rather than the act itself.

  I’m breathing heavily as I lower myself gently on top of her. I managed to finish just before she died, and I’m pleased with myself. It tells me that I’m much more controlled than I think I am, but now it’s time for me to clean up. I have to erase every trace that she was ever in my home, and I have to clean my sheers. They definitely have earned their place in the cabinet.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It took three days of cleaning and careful tidying to eradicate the memory of Abigail from my home, but it’s done now.

  I’ve slept for as many days and am feeling like a different man; a more confident man. I know that I will find her today. I’ve done enough research going through Abigail’s phone to have been able to locate her address.

  In my snooping, I’ve learned that the blue Chevy Impala was actually a rental car because her car was in the shop. I’ve learned that it’s much easier to get rid of a small, burgundy car with a hatchback than I’ve realized, and I’ve learned that she knows about me.

  Funny the things we find out once we actually sit down long enough to understand the circumstances of what’s around us every day.

  I’m walking out of my home now. The concrete bags and the bricks have been lain by the appropriate windows and the doors that will house them when I’m done.

  When it’s finally over.

  I close the door behind me as I fish for the very last cigarette of the half pack I’ve had for days and light it. I’m a bit nervous because I don’t know how she’ll receive me or if she’ll even recall my face, but I am determined.

  As it turns out, she never really lived very far from where I’ve set up my home. She’s been very close this entire time, and it vexes me slightly that I never really knew this.

  I’m usually very good on the details, but since I can never recall what she looks like, I’ve never been able to place her long enough in my mind to know her if I’ve seen her casually.

  I only ever see her when I’m not thinking about her, which is far and few in between. On those rare moments, when I allow other things to consume my thoughts, is when I see her. It’s a bit of a conundrum, but I’ve handled it just fine until now.

  Her home is less than a mile from mine, and I’ve decided to walk today. I don’t want to approach her in a vehicle, mostly because I don’t remember where the hell I put mine, but also because I think a nice walk back to my home will give me time to remember her fondly and to have a nice conversation.

  Something small to stimulate my mind before she overtakes my senses again.

  I don’t know how I’ll entice her back to my home, but something will come to me quickly enough to gain her trust. Maybe she’s smarter than Abigail, maybe my charm won’t work on her, but I’ll find out shortly.

  I pull on the cigarette a bit harder than I would have liked to and cough slightly. I’ll never get used to having the hollow smoke of death making its way down my throat and into my lungs. It’s a good thing that I’m not a smoker.

  I come to the first crosswalk and wait patiently, nervously, for the blinking hand across the street to turn into a walking person so that I may proceed.

  I wonder if she thinks about me in a bad light? I wonder if she knows everything there is to know about me or if she’s already drawn conclusions?

  I hope it’s neither, because what she knows of me so far isn’t truly who I am. It’s what she’s being led to believe. I can and will change her mind about me.

  The sign changes and I walk quickly to the other side trying to remember what street to turn on. All of them are a blur to me, most likely from the excitement of what’s to happen.

  But I’m good with numbers and I’ve remembered the street names as such so that I can continue on, knowing that my mind would be clouded with thoughts of giddiness.

  On the next street, I’m supposed to turn right, then two blocks over I turn left, and her house will be there. I wonder what it looks like, I wonder if she’s happy there, and I wonder if she’ll miss it when she’s with me. She won’t suffer for long, I refuse to allow that. I just want her head; it’s the only thing that’ll make me feel whole again. I haven’t procured her crown yet, but I’ve ordered it, and it should arrive in a few days.

/>   I’ll keep her alive long enough to see it; she deserves that much.

  How many blocks have I walked lost in my thoughts of her? One? Two? I’m not sure, so I turn around and glance up at the street name above me.

  My heart is beginning to race. I’m on her street now and I’ve moved much faster than I thought I would. Her house should be in the middle of the street somewhere ... Ah, there it is.

  My mind feels like the walls are caving in as I walk toward it. It’s nice; quaint and small enough for one person, yet I assume the inside could house a family.

  Things aren’t always what they seem, are they? I try not to judge things by how they appear on the outside.

  Oh, God.

  I’m standing at the end of her walkway and I have to find it within myself to move my feet forward. I feel like stone has been built around them and I don’t know if she’s home. I don’t know if she’s waiting for me like I hope she is, but I have to try.

  I close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath, and flick the cigarette before I open them again with renewed purpose.

  I see a small window with the shade partially open. No one will think anything of it if I peek inside. I don’t look like a prowler, and the myth is that they usually strike at nighttime anyway.

  I make my way toward the side of the house as quickly as I can before I lose my nerve and use the shade of the trees to mask myself from any neighbors that might be watching.

  I don’t know what I’ll say if one of them asks me what I’m doing, but chances are they’re all at work or out for the day anyway. Mindless errands, being slaves at their day jobs; it didn’t matter to me as long as they didn’t interfere.

  I take a deep breath as I slowly lean into the window and glance around inside. At first, I don’t see anything enticing. There’s a table, a sofa, a large flat-screen television, and a lounge chair. I feel the air leave my lungs in deflated defeat, when the chair slowly starts to swivel.

  A leg drops down, and my breath catches in my chest. She’s reading my story, I can tell by the way she looks at the device she’s holding, by the way her eyes are opening.

  Our eyes meet, and I smile.

  I ... I guess you know by now, don’t you?

  You’ll open the door when I knock. You have to. We’ve come so far already.

  Don’t you understand?

  Don’t you see?

  It was you.

  It.

  Was.

  Always.

  You.