Page 16 of Fatally Yours

Even though it had only been a few hours, reality was setting in faster than I could cope with.

When we got inside, August headed off to our bedroom, and I curled up on the couch, burying my head in my knees.

Being back here made me swear I could breathe, even if it was unnecessary.

Every time I tried, I never felt that rush of air or my chest rising and falling.

In an attempt to escape my worries, I scooped up the remote, hoping to distract myself from this wicked truth.

Pressing the button, the screen came to life, and I tossed it beside me.

A woman was creeping down a hallway while sinister music played.

I observed a shadow lurk behind her until a figure appeared and plunged a knife into her.

Over and over again, blood flew, screams popped through the speakers, and she slowly faded until still.

A shudder ran down my spine as I snatched the remote and changed the channel.

The next thing I saw was a news anchor spewing something about an unidentified serial killer in Tennessee.

Each victim was littered with stab wounds, and the bodies were dumped along the highway, still coated in the fluid that once gave them life.

I turned off the TV and put my head down.

I could hear August in our room, rummaging around and seemingly unfazed by the stains on our bed.

A curiosity struck me as I wondered what my injuries looked like in death.

He had the tire treads on his chest, and his eye was changed from where he sustained further damage.

Without thinking, I pulled up my shirt, glancing down at my paper-thin skin.

My heart sank once more. The multitude of raised scars on my stomach and chest from where he stabbed me were pale white.

I felt around my neck, and there were a few speckled along my skin.

The image of his hate was imprinted on my body, never to be removed.

A permanent reminder of my sickening betrayal, even if I didn’t mean it.

Death would never take those away, inflicting me with another gruesome punishment.

My fingers traced the wounds as the sun filtered through the windows, wishing I could peel them off like Halloween latex. I turned towards the light, hoping to get a better view of them, and something caught my eye. Something glittering, poking out of my skin.

My heart may have fluttered again as I scraped my dirty nail along it, scratching and secretly hoping I would feel some pain or see the hue of irritation or, even better, blood.

But there was none as the little metal piece freed itself from the scar tissue, revealing itself to be the tip of the knife.

It was just an inch long, but it was unmistakable.

Mandy sometimes spoke about crimes so vicious that weapons snapped off in the victim.

I never imagined that it would happen to me.

I placed it on the coffee table and sighed, listening to August in the other room.

Picking at my nails, I hoped to wash away the remnants of that night I had dug myself out of the grave.

It wasn’t fair that he was taking this so well.

I felt like I was on the verge of a breakdown, but he was acting as if everything was fine.

Though I supposed he was always proclaiming that he would live forever, so this wouldn’t be much different—except for the part where I joined him.

Feeling my throat tighten again and knowing this was perhaps my last chance to feel normal, I stood up and wandered into the kitchen. The piece of the knife drew my eye again as I walked away, watching it glare in the sunlight.

I went over to the cupboard, pulled out a pan, and sparked up the burner.

I wasn’t sure what I would make or if I could or wanted to eat it, but I repeated the process so many nights before.

This was as normal as going to work or cleaning up, so I continued.

Just as I placed some chicken into the sizzling pan, August emerged from the room and gave me a puzzled look.

“What are you doing?”

“Making dinner,” I replied, fixing my gaze on the stove.

“We don’t need to eat anymore.”

“I want to,” I said. “I can still cry and feel nervous, so why can’t I eat?” Turning to him, my face twisted with what I could only describe as annoyance. “And you can get drunk and fuck me, and I just don’t understand.” His eyes veered to the side.

Good. He should feel guilty.

Then he put his arm around me, and all that satisfaction faded.

My shoulders fell as I leaned against him, knowing my emotions were still reeling from the prior events.

Being back here wasn’t helping, either. How many nights had I spent sobbing until my face ached or drinking until time was a blur?

And knowing just a few feet away was our bloodstained bed…

I wasn’t sure how I was going to react when I saw it.

“I wish I had answers, baby. But I don’t,” he said.

“I know.” I sighed again, my chest somehow lacking the rise and fall of breath.

“Just let me feel alive for one more night. Then I can start accepting that I’m…

” My lip curled. Admitting it tasted like ozone on my tongue.

“Dead.” I glanced back at the pan, hoping to return to normalcy for the next few moments by doing something I so often did in life.

He was looking at me with a faint expression of concern until I spoke .

“I wish you could take my worries away.”

“I wish I could, too, my love,” he said. “If it makes you feel better, being dead will change you.” My eyes fell on him again.

“What exactly do you mean?”

“It’s hard to explain, but you’ll figure it out when it happens,” he said. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I had a feeling he wasn’t being entirely truthful with me. However, I also had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the way he remorselessly ripped the life from my body.

“It gets better eventually.” He flicked away a crumb of dirt staining my blouse and brushed his thumb over one of the pale marks on my neck, causing me to shiver.

“Why don’t you go take a shower and change?

I’ll watch the stove.” He dusted his palm over my shirt, wiping away more soil.

Little clouds billowed from me, and I heard the gentle patter of grains hitting the ground. “You’ll feel better.”

“Maybe.” I turned down the burner slightly and wandered off. The discomfort in my stomach grew as I approached our bedroom. The idea that I was going to my own crime scene again and reliving that evening made me want to sweat.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him watching me with worry as I pushed the door open.

The breath felt like it was sucked from my lungs if I could breathe at all, as I took in the bloody view of the room.

The comforter and remaining sheet had the familiar dulled crimson splatter permanently stained, and the floor shared a similar pattern.

When I looked up, there was a spray of polka dots, albeit they were oxidized.

No wonder our friends lost their minds when they walked in.

The sight would be burned into my retinas for the rest of my days.

I made my way to our bathroom and turned on the shower, then stripped off my clothes while I waited for the water to heat up. As usual, it took a few minutes for steam to billow from behind the worn curtain as I toyed with the raised scars on my front.

Once it was warm enough, I ducked beneath the stream and watched as tiny clumps of dirt fell from my hair.

The flow turned terracotta brown from the stains of blood being cleansed from my body.

When I looked at the drain, a few blades of grass were stuck above it.

My head sank as I shampooed my hair, hoping to wash away the sour memories of that night.

It was hard when my fingers kept grazing a pale scar on my neck.

Faint noises came from outside the door, but I figured it was just August.

Finally, the water ran clear, and I knew it was time to get out.

Somehow, my fingertips were wrinkled like they were in life.

I shrugged it off and wrapped myself in a towel, remembering his declaration that he didn’t have all the answers.

I feared we would just be going through existence without knowing what we could and couldn’t do.

It didn’t matter, though; I would have to suck it up and deal with it. The dead couldn’t die again, right?

I headed to my dresser and pulled out some fresh clothes, eager not to be wearing the outfit I was murdered in anymore.

Once I threw on a black blouse and skirt to match my lack of life and my mood, I went back to the bathroom to touch up the makeup I had worn off in the shower, just like I used to.

While I brushed out my damp hair, I recalled that I used to do the same routine when we would go out or when I would get ready for work. Those days were long behind us now. Work seemed trivial when your boyfriend came back from the dead and murdered you.

Shaking out my hair one last time, I headed into our room, carefully avoiding looking at the bed.

I plucked a backpack from the closet and began filling it with clothes, knowing that we wouldn’t be staying here for long with whatever he had planned.

We couldn’t. This was a crime scene, and someone would come looking for me eventually.

“Natasha,” August said. I hummed in response but didn’t look up, still folding up various articles of clothing. “This isn’t yours.” My attention was torn away as I turned to him. I swore I felt my face flush when I saw what was in his hand.