Page 67 of The Cannibal

I wanted to tear his head from his body for giving such a foolish child a painless, quick death. Edith didn’t deserve such a mercy. I wanted to pull her veins from her body one by one like worms from a slab of old pork. I wanted her to look at what she’d done, to face some sort of consequence for her transgression.

As time passed waiting for Alina to wake, I didn’t realize I would begin to forget the exact expressions of her face, the sound of her voice, the spirit that drew me to her. I had memories, and those degraded with every use.

Not even when Luka made an illustration of her did it help. Drawing her current state didn’t quite capture the anger, the fire, her wicked moral fiber.

So here I have been with a dire hunger, a wife revived against her will, and the crushing weight of being solely responsible for people’s longevity and survival. I don’t think any meal could prevent me from being squeezed dry.

Even now I tried to picture her. Her cold eyes and menacing words. The way she moves when she works, or when she’s plotting. How she was when no one was looking, or at least, she thought no one was. Her face so soft, yet the tension in her brows, her eyes, it’s ever present even when relaxed.

The way she looked at me when I refused to acknowledge her. It was deeply unsatisfying. I thought it may make me feel better, to show her the hurt I felt when I knew she was hiding from me. There was nothing pleasant about it. My projection made it worse.

My mind forced another image onto me.

Her eyes open, the steadiness of her body, not a drop of life left. Her last breath stolen from parted lips, her last moment a betrayal; a monster of her own making, thinking she could fix people.

Just as my anxiety was crawling up the back of my throat, so did my meal. I choked, the blood spilling to the floor.

“Fucking Christ!” I yelled, pitching the bottle straight at the wall.

Luka flinched and used the door as a shield before poking back out. “Bad time?”

“For you? The timing is always atrocious.” I wiped my chin with my sleeve, but there was too much to truly clean. I’ll just burn the clothes anyway.

“Can we be adults about this?” Luka leaned against the kitchen stove.

“About which part?” I laughed, a bit of blood still dripping from my lips. “The part where you hid her from me? Had me worried sick for nothing that she wasn’t going to wake?”

Luka kept his arms crossed, his face cold. He knew I was right to be angry; he couldn’t tell me I was wrong.

“Who do you think you are?” I approached rapidly, rolling my sleeve up my arm, blood smears all over my clothes. “What gave you the right?”

He shoved me back by my shoulders.

I hooked him in the jaw, the skin of my knuckles splitting.

When I tried again he grabbed me, shoving me, more forceful this time.

“You didn’t tell me!” I yelled. “None of you did!”

“And your behavior as of late somehow demonstrates that you are in a good mental state to be handling a very fragile transition stage?” Luka’s eyes did not leave even one movement behind, not even a blink.

“I could have!” I shouted, pointing to my chest, unable to contain myself. “No one gives me the chance! How am I supposed to do better—to be better—if I am not even given the opportunity?”

“Did you want us to risk the death of your mate on the chance that you wouldn’t have handled it well? That her body woke but everything else rejected? Would you have survived heartbreak so soon if you pushed her to return to the way she was?” Luka looked at me with such apathy, I wondered whose side he was really on.

I tore open a drawer, wrapping my hand in a table napkin and using it to wipe my face.

“The stakes feel real now, don’t they,” Luka commented, his eyes following the mess on the floor and wall.

With a deep breath, I leaned against the counter, arms crossed over my chest as I stared at the scene. Blood everywhere, multiple bottles on the floor aside from the one in pieces by the door. I scratched the back of my head. For some reason, the pit of my stomach dropped as I realized I was caught in such a state.

“We got word this morning that the other city establishments will support us,” Luka offered, some semblance of good news. There was no hint of sarcasm, no jokes, his stance was even relaxed. Luka’s hands were shoved in his pockets, legs shoulder-length apart. His head tipped my way.

I lifted a shoulder. “Fine.”

“Fine?” The scar running through the corner of his lip pulled tighter when he smiled. “That’s all?”

My shoulders raised to my ears before dropping again.