Page 123 of Dead Love

The world was quiet. Most of the town was at Mount Punica or downtown, watching the chaos unfold. But us? We were here, alone in the cemetery. It was hard for me to comprehend that he cared enough to let me make my own decisions. So I tried to think it over.

“The bodies,” I said, gesturing at the burial plot. “The cars first?”

He took a deep breath, then squeezed my shoulder. “Let’s do it.”

After a quick shower, Vincent put on gloves, then hot-wired both cars, removed the tracking devices, and took them out to Mount Punica. He dropped them off on the other side of the volcano, spreading them apart from the Wild Berry Trailhead. Then, after he had gotten a rideshare back and called Catie to bicker, he said that she had agreed to ask the new medical examiner for a favor, to patch up the stab wound on his palm, off of the clock.

And while he was gone, I examined the hole. The bodies lay there. I imagined Nyla lying in the totaled car on the side of the road. Her twenty-third birthday. What gave them the right to decide when she died?

And maybe I didn’t have that right to decide when their lives ended either, but I wasn’t going to take it back. If I had to live with myself, I would rather have killed them than have done nothing at all.

I climbed down, lifting my father’s shoulders, but he was so heavy I could barely move him. I tried with Andrew, and though Andrew was smaller than my father, he was solid muscle. A car door slammed shut, then the dogs trampled forward, barking down at me. My heart raced in my chest. Who was it? And how was I going to explain this to them?

My hands shook as I climbed the ladder. Catie bent down, petting the dogs. And when she saw me, her brows furrowed.

“Vincent went out,” I said. I wiped my brow with the back of my hand, a slimy substance crossing my skin. I was covered in dirt and blood.

“You look,” she paused, tilting her head, “busy.”

“Sort of,” I said sheepishly.

“I’ll close the cemetery, then,” she said. “You want me to handle the funeral home while you’re—” she gestured around, “—working?”

I nodded. “Thanks. Vincent should be back soon.”

“Okay,” she said, whistling. “I’ll be inside.”

Annoyed at myself for not being able to push a two-hundred-pound body up to the grass, I went inside Vincent’s kitchen, finding a cleaver. I climbed down, carrying the knife’s handle between my teeth, focusing on the task itself. I took a deep breath, letting the air expel slowly.

“I hope Nyla stomps on you,” I said. Then I brought the cleaver down as hard as I could onto Andrew’s arm. It split the skin and flesh in a hard whack, deep red blood oozing out. The scent of dirty pennies filled the air, but I did it again, and again, until finally, his arm broke off.

One arm down. Three to go.

A bizarre sensation washed over me, like I was watching myself do all of these things. Dismembering a body. A corpse. Knowing that they felt nothing.

“And I hope Vincent’s brother smashes your face,” I said, bring down the cleaver on my father’s neck. The snap of the bone made me cringe, but I was almost done.

I threw one of the calves up to the ground, then started working on tossing up the rest of the body. Sarah leaned down and whined.

“What is it, girl?” I asked.

Bernie barked, then took the calf, dragging it off.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Wait!”

Ulysses sat next to Sarah, whining in a chorus. Then they both carried off arms of their own. My head was dizzy, my body still vibrating with adrenaline that kept me going. I couldn’t stop them now.

Vincent peered down the hole.

“I didn’t mean for them to get the body parts,” I said. He laughed, then reached down, waiting for the other body parts, and I lifted them to him.

On the ground, the dogs’ canines tore into the flesh, dark blood gathering on their fur. Sarah looked at me, certainty in her eyes, almost like she wanted to protect me. She had accepted me too.

Vincent returned with black garbage bags. We gathered the body parts together, including the chewed-up pieces. Once we were done, Vincent turned to me.

“Let me take care of this,” he said. “Why don’t you take a shower?”

I nodded, grateful for the break. The water ran brown and pink, mixing at the bottom of the tub until finally, it was clear again. And I didn’t think about what that meant. Or the fact that I didn’t know what I was doing with my life. Or what my actions meant for my future. I focused on my breath.