Behind the counter, an old lady who’s been pouring coffee here for decades makes a fresh pot. “Mary,” says the faded name tag. She starts refilling a cup on the counter for the old man sitting there and I wonder what her rough, saggy skin would look like with blood and semen painted all over her corpse like a Jackson Pollock painting.
I glance over at the register where a middle-aged Cherokee woman checks out an older couple. Her neck glistens with sweat. I imagine the color of her blood against her brown skin, dripping down onto her supple breast after I slit her throat. The glorious look of fear and horror in her eyes as I lay on top of her watching the life drain from her eyes as I violently thrust inside of her.
Sighing, I set my pen down and look at the plate of over-easy eggs and dry toast I haven’t touched. I cut the food into small pieces. Eating, I realize the blood doesn’t bring me joy like it used to. The beauty of the arterial spray, the different patterns the pooling would make around the bodies, or the horror in my victims' faces as I finish my work while they slowly die. These things used to bring me such delight.
The blood is my art, my work, my passion. It fulfills and sustains me. It is what I live for. I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose the only thing I love.
I sop up the last bits of runny yolk with my toast and push my empty plate to the other side of the table. I continue writing.
To my left, a group of teenagers were sitting at a table chatting and giggling and getting louder and louder, oblivious to me. The sounds of their voices were like nails on a chalkboard.
I attempt to remain calm, their nauseating banter is making me furious. I glance over and stare menacingly, hoping they notice and will be quiet. They don’t, and I slide my hand into my pants pocket to feel around for my pocket knife and grab it. I sigh with content. Its presence has always given me comfort and made me feel safe. It has caused so much blood to flow over the years. It was my stress reliever.
I smile thinking about the blood, I put my notebook away.
I have to get the fuck out of here, maybe move to a new city and start fresh, I thought.
The people around here are starting to get on my nerves, and if I don’t do something soon I fear I will snap and do something stupid like murder someone in broad daylight. I do not need that kind of stress in my life.
Mary came by my table with the check. I looked up at her somewhat relieved and smiled as she handed it to me. For some reason, I felt comfort in her presence.
“What time do you get off work?” I asked, instantly regretted it.
I never do things like this. I started to get up so I could run.
“In about five minutes if you want to walk me home,” she said, smiling.
“Uhh...” was all I could say. I never expected her to respond favorably.
“I’ll meet you outside in a few.”
“Okay.”
I went to pay my bill and walked outside. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I should bolt. I never should have said anything. I began to pace back and forth. Mary came outside and we headed toward her house.
My heart raced, and I felt slightly nauseous.
“So, are you a writer?” She asked as we walked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Oh yeah? What kind of stuff do you write about?”
The question alarmed me, but I quickly thought of a lie to tell her.
“Well don’t freak out, but I mostly write extreme horror. Murder and gore and all of the nasty stuff.”
She shot me a wide-eyed look.
“You’re into splatterpunk?” She asked excitedly.
“Oh yeah, I’ve written a few books and a bunch of stories,” I answered.
She smiled at me, grabbed my hand, and held it.
The farther we went the more we talked, and the better I felt. The nausea went away and my heartbeat returned to normal. This is the most time I’ve ever spent with a live woman. I was having so much fun I lost track of time, and soon we arrived at her front door.
“You can come in if you want,” she said softly, “you know, I’ve seen what you write in your little notebook.”
My eyes widened in alarm. I panicked as I felt a sharp pain in my neck. I turned around to see Lily grinning wickedly. I felt woozy. I fell backward onto the floor of the entryway. I was unable to cry out as my muscles got weary. I reached for my knife but my arms wouldn’t move.
I awoke strapped down to a metal table. My naked flash felt at home on the stainless steel surface. I couldn’t move my head, all I could see was the ceiling.
“Like I said, I have read some of what you write in your notebook at the cafe and you inspired me to make the blood a part of my life,” Lily said.
She was nearby, I could smell her. She was aroused. She climbed on the table and straddled me. She grinded back and forth against me. I felt her loosen the strap on my head. I bent my neck to look up at her. She smiled. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Finally, I could share my work with someone, I could have someone to talk to about my love for the blood.
She leaned forward as if to kiss me. Instead, she picked up a knife from a table near my head and slit my throat from left to right. I watched my blood spray out over her body and drip down her chest. Her grinding intensified and she cried out in orgasm. She looked into my eyes as my life slipped away…
This was the happiest I had ever been.