Page 73 of Make You Mine

I take careful steps toward it again. Inside it, there’s another bag.

I pull that one forward and undo the second knot. The foul smell becomes putrid, unlike anything I’ve ever smelt before, making me recoil and almost gag.

I open the bag wide, holding my hand to my face to avoid sniffing any more of that disgusting odor.

I do a double-take, before my eyes widen and I avert my gaze.

Are those…fucking bloody limbs?

I crawl back on my hands, moving away to regain composure.

This can’t be it. It can’t.

But it is.

Now, the terrible smell makes sense, the double coating of the bags, trying to cover up a crime.

This is…this is murder in a bag.

If there was any hint of doubt in my mind that this was his doing, now it’s clear.

This was him—and he’s putting it on me.

Unless I get rid of it.

That’s why he rushed me here. Told me to get rid of it somewhere where the police can’t tie it to me.

If that’s only one bag, I don’t want to know what’s inside the heavier one. Still, images of a human head penetrate my every thought.

I stroke my throat and grimace. I need to get rid of this. ASAP.

Bringing the back of my palm to my nose, I squint my eyes and try to tie up the one bag again, ignoring the pungent aroma that’s spreading throughout the house, and refusing to let my gag reflex win.

Tying up a bag one-handed is more difficult than it looks, but I get it done.

The next thing is spraying the whole house with air freshener.

It takes me two trips to bring the bags to the parking lot and into my car, with endless staring around involved, to make sure no one catches me in the act.

I swallow and get in the car.

It doesn’t take me long to find the farthest landfill. It does take me a while, however, to find an unattended one. I drive way out of town. A good hour and a half away. I call Principal Schultz at the first stop light, when I know I won’t be back for class, telling him I had to leave because of a stomach bug, which, in reality, isn’t too far off from how I’m feeling now.

It all comes out after I’m done dumping the body. I stop at the nearest park and empty my stomach on the ground outside. Puking the dread out of it, the memories and trauma I’m left with after this.

If there was evil on earth, I know now I’ve found it. I thought I was bad—but he’s worse.

I clean my mouth with the back of my sleeve and straighten my clothes, ignoring the growing dizziness that’s fogging my mind.

I just threw out a real human being. Dumped him in the trash.

There’s nothing I could have done for him at the stage he was in, but that doesn’t mean that’s the treatment he deserved. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

One thing doesn’t quite fit the narrative for me, though. It’s nagging at the side of my brain as I step into the car again and drive back home.

If this psycho wanted me to go down and frame me for a murder I didn’t commit—then why did he warn me in time?

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