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Sometimes these things are so beautiful they make you ache. To feel pain is the only measurable way to experience an ineffable beauty.
I’ve tried to gift my love poetry. I’ve left her little verses. But I feel I’ve failed to get her attention. I don’t want to admit that I’ve failed her—that would be impossible. We’re the only two people on the planet who completely understand each other. The depth that we share. No, I have
n’t failed her. I just need something grander that in some way measures up to her standards.
She’ll appreciate my latest gift. It’s a sentiment right out of the history books for which she adores. And when that moment strikes—when all ends meet, and she realizes the brilliance of us…
Oh, how I yearn to see her face. Place my hand to her chest and feel that one, momentary second of awe that makes her heart skip a beat.
We’re unique. See, she’s the only one that truly understands the significance of that. I searched for so long…hunted for so many years…just to make sense of the why.
Why the flame is just as intoxicating as the razor’s edge. Why the shrill cry wrenched from the slice of the blade gives equal satisfaction as the shriek from searing flesh.
It should be wrong. I’ve read all the material, sat through countless lectures. The brain doesn’t work this way, so I’ve been instructed. Preference is as much an art form as the stroke of a brush.
Just to test my theory—because I love to test—I guide the tip of the blade close to my newest pet’s throat. Her body trembles and her sobs grow chokingly thick. Clear liquid trails her pink cheeks, and as I nip her skin, she releases a wail that sends an electric current through my veins.
I revel in the delicious shivers skittering over my skin. It’s a shame there’s no one else around to hear her beautiful cries—but that’s how it has to be. People off living their lives, unaware of the masterpiece being created right next door to their living space.
So busy…everyone’s so busy today. Not a soul near enough to hear the pleas.
And that’s how I find them. The ones who gallivant at night, seeking acceptance. Those who work hard to maintain a normal, functioning life so artificially balanced it’s robotic during the light of day. The lonely ones who no one misses right away. I have journals full of such souls; their schedules. When they leave, when they come back. Where they go. No pets. That’s important. Can’t have irritating yapping interrupting my delicate work.
And I love to watch. As they stir their coffee; this one here, she prefers light cream, no sugar. No siblings. No calls from Mom and Dad, who live in Wyoming, so her last letter from Mom was stamped. Oh, all the hard, hard work that goes into detailing a life. But all those wonderful details make up a roadmap that leads to this long-awaited moment.
Where they experience their fate. What all the other, lame nonsense was just leading up to. I’m giving them a gift, really. Now Lucy doesn’t have to complain to the other waitresses at the diner about how “if she could just find the right man, then she’d stop sleeping around with all those losers…”
See? How horrible her life was before I knocked at her door. And I could see it in her eyes—that clear second of realization; sun illuminating her hair like a halo—that she knew: salvation.
Her salvation from the mundane had finally come.
She’s free from all the toil, the heartache, the struggle. Free.
She no longer has to suffer her monotonous routine.
She was so tired, anyway. So, so tired.
Just enough spunk left over to offer me her sweet cries.
And how I relish them. Her present to me.
But her ultimate gift? Being a part of my grand masterpiece. My offering to my love. Dear Lucy just doesn’t quite possess the fortitude to appreciate how special she is.
I get chills just thinking about it.
Lucy can’t possibly comprehend our connection, my love. When I was lost, you showed me the way. You opened my eyes to who I truly am. You gave me my signature.
A man cannot lack his signature—it’s damn near the most important aspect.
For that, I’m eternally indebted to you.
I start slowly, nicking, slicing. Watching red bead against milky flesh. The gorgeous red—our favorite color. The metallic tang scents the air, and I inhale deeply, impatient for the moment when I’m able to bathe you in blood.
13
Finding Blood
Sadie
