Page 19

Chapter Eighteen

Ren

M y pencil finishes making the final traces, stopping right on Byron’s face. I focus on the look on his face—so many emotions on display, none that I can recreate. Not like him, but my pencil can. Or at least immortalize it. I put the pencil and sketchbook down, focusing on a sleeping Byron. The emotional and psychological toll on his body hit its limit and crashed him out.

But he is surviving me. He should be proud. I know I am. But now I need to nurse him back to health if I want to keep playing. I didn’t lie to him when I said he intrigued me. Like him killing his friend—lover—whatever blue-eyes meant to him. That was totally unexpected, but totally welcomed. I can’t deny the feeling of satisfaction that crept up my body when his hand sliced open blue-eyes’ throat and covered his palm in crimson. Even if it was only for pity, it was a start. Which means he’s learning. But let’s push him harder... let’s see how much he can take. How much will he let me take?

I stand from my spot and walk out of the studio and down the hall to my room to grab the burner phone. Flipping it open, I call the only number in its storage.

“Yo,” Kevin’s voice booms through the speaker, irritating my nerves. “How can I help?”

“Any idea how to set up an IV? Also, where did you leave the medical supplies for emergencies?”

He laughs, barky and annoying, causing me to roll my eyes. “Breaking your toys already?”

I don’t answer. Hopefully, my silence tips him off that I’m not in the mood for a chat. This is business. A simple transaction.

“In the kitchen, under the sink. Red bag,” he answers .

“And the Rose?” I ask as I make my way out the room and toward the kitchen. He chuckles again.

“Not wilting yet, but she’s not buying the texts. She’s worried about her big brother, wants to go see him.”

Using my shoulder to prop up my phone, I open the steaming pot holding a chunk of meat—my pot roast for tonight’s dinner —and add in the potatoes and celery that were already chopped up on the counter. I smile. I actually like domesticated life. Creating, fucking, and eating—what more could I ask for?

Someone who is here for me. The real me, not the illusion. Byron could have simply killed me plenty of times, but he chooses not to. He chooses me, even if he hasn’t acknowledged it yet. His mistake was not choosing me sooner.

“Okay, so get her distracted. Fuck her, knock her up.”

He laughs harder. “How’s it going for you? Has he denounced his light and become your brainless fuck toy?”

Anger causes me to stop, wishing Kevin was here so I could kill him and filet him like a fish. Not to eat... not to immortalize... but just because.

“Just keep her off my trail. How’s the outside?” I ask. I try to stay away from watching TV. If I’m not creating, I’m reading some horror novel or texting with Johnathan pretending to be Byron. But now my choices are limited now that I’m a fugitive of the law and blue eyes dead. But the walls are closing in and I’m running out of time. Killing Johnathan was a fatal mistake—one that will most likely lead the cops directly to me. So Byron needs to make a choice, or I’ll be forced to make it for him. It’s just easier.

“How long are we going to keep this up for?”

Annoyed, I open the door to the cabinet under the sink. “Shouldn’t take much longer. Then you should have your money, and I’ll disappear.” With that, I grab the bag. “I got the bag. Now what?”

“You grab the butterfly needle, tape, IV lines, and saline bag. Hang it somewhere, find a vein, and you’re a smart man, so the next step you should be able to do on your own,” he says, and I end the call, walking back toward the studio.

Byron’s breaths come in fast. Small sniffles escape his body, shaking it. He looks pathetic. Nothing like the Byron I first met. The violent offender, walking through life like everyone should be punished. Like a feral animal.

Placing the bag of supplies on the floor and walking over to him, I haul up half of his body. Noticing his missing body muscle and how much thinner he is, stirs something in me.

I walk him toward my room, place him in my bed and just watch him for a moment. His eyebrows knit together, his body twitches. My finger lightly brushes over his cheek as if I can chase away his demons. I wanted to be his only torment. Poor Byron. Tortured in his waking moments and in his sleep, so much like me.

So why won’t he let me help? I’m giving him the cure, but he resists taking it.

Walking from the room, I retrieve the bag and then return to my room. My eyes look at the black screen of the TV in the room, tempted to see what’s going on in the outside world. To see what is the latest on the manhunt for Laguna Bay Painter. It’s only a matter of time now. I’ve been reckless, but there’s no going back. I gotta finish what I started. I also gotta deal with Kevin, but Byron is more important. I think he’s learning—or at least coming to the same conclusion.

Opening the bag, I grab the things I need before opening an alcohol wipe and cleaning the area. I open the butterfly needle package before smacking at a noticeable vein and inserting the needle, and finally hooking up the line. After connecting the line to the IV bag, I hang it up on the bed frame and finish tucking him in before I leave him to clean up another mess.

I stop in front of the door to the studio. Blood covers the floor, and I’m thankful I placed the tarp down… easy cleaning. But the more I focus on the red, the ground shifts and I’m no longer in the cabin.

I’ m in my room.

Naked. My hand is shaking, still gripping the knife.

“Mo—“ I try to say the word, to call the name she dreaded coming from my lips. The tears burn my eyes, and I sniffle them up.

Shaking my head, I focus now on what I need to do. On what’s real—and not the monster I killed and buried. Walking up to the bloody canvas, I kneel beside him. His bright blue eyes remain open, glassed over and dulled. Using two fingers, I close his eyes, allowing him one final mercy. After all, his death was the catalyst for the rebirth of Byron.

This will help him understand. Sink him quicker. Where I can feel him.

I stand and walk over to the armoire in the corner of the room. Opening its wooden drawer, I pull out what’s become my favorite piece of all. There’s something personal in cutting up the pieces to arrange them into something whole.

My gift to him will be his immortalization.

So I begin the process, my hand resting on his thigh while my other begins to saw at the area that connects to his hip. It’s not easy sawing off body parts, but this is what makes the results worth it. You’re creating with your hands, memorizing each cut and muscle. Then you recreate, and attach the pieces to create something beautiful. Byron, in his own way, cared for this one, so maybe one day he will appreciate my efforts—because it’s a lot. Applying more pressure to disconnect the layers of muscles, I continue to hum the song my mother would sing to me.

Beautiful Boy by John Lennon.

My eyes focus on the blood that stains my father’s desk, no matter how many times it’s been cleaned. If I focus enough, I can still see it and smell it which causes my stomach to knot. My fists ball at my sides as I think of all the times I would go into his office looking for a father who was never there.

“Dad—“

My dad would raise a hand, silencing me the moment I walked through the door. Work was always more important... we didn’t matter.

This time was no different .

So, I barge out of the office and run down the hall, trying to calm my heart and the tears that run down my face. I run straight to the room where I feel safe... where I’m wanted. Quietly, I open the door to her room. She lay sleeping, her onyx soft waves splayed on her pillow like a halo, her red lipstick smeared along with her mascara. Like she’s been crying... she was always crying... always angry... but I make her feel better.

And maybe she helps me feel better... We make each other better. Mommy says I only need her. Only her. Forever her and I. Softly, I peel back the white comforter and slip in the bed with Mommy. Her warm body soothes me.

My fingers dig deeper into his thigh, my will fighting with my mind to remain in the present... to remain here.

“Fuck,” I say through gritted teeth, finally breaking the thigh free. The flesh tears away with a final yank, and the coagulated blood oozes out from the piece of bone that pokes through. The memory of her perfume still lingers. My head pounds, and the gut feeling that I have made a grave mistake is too loud to ignore. But I need to get on with this... and it takes me forever to dismember and clean the pieces.

To clean the room.

After spending quite some time dismembering blue-eye, cleaning up my mess, and storing the meat, it’s finally time to clean myself... but no matter how much I try, I cannot scrub away the red. It stains me entirely. My hands move on autopilot, turning the faucet to make sure the water is hot enough to boil away the memories and keep me grounded long enough to shower without her interrupting.

But it’s happening again. I’m slipping...

Washing my hair, I feel her nails caress my back, then feel her small delicate hands as they wrap around my traitorous cock. Slapping my head, over and over, but I still feel the warmth of her mouth as she sobs. Always crying.

“Look at me,” she sobs around my length, but I stare at the tiles, trying to imagine that I am anywhere but here. Soapy water runs down my face, burning my eyes as her nails dig into my hips which causes me to thrust into her throat, causing her to gag—to cry. My chest tightens and I can’t breathe. The steam from the room suffocates me. Her mouth on me destroys me, and I can’t tell if it’s the water or my tears that stream down my face as I look down and see my eyes staring back at me.

The pain of my hand slapping my head pulls me out. Quickly, I scrub off the memory, but it’s never enough. Turning off the faucet, I don’t bother to dry myself off as I walk out of the bathroom, and down the hall to the kitchen. I’m no longer hungry, and truthfully, Byron will be out for a while. I turn on the small TV while I wait for the pot roast cooking on the stove to cool down, and lower the volume. No news on Byron’s disappearance yet... nothing for his friend either.

But I’m still wanted.

Still talked about even weeks later...

Frustration boils within me. I shouldn’t have stuck around, but this compulsion... obsession with Byron has kept me rooted. Walking over to the cookie jar, I open the small ivory container and pull out the pre-rolls Kevin left on his last visit. Well—I asked for them. They were good to have around to reward my Thorn, but they also served to calm my nerves. Something I’ve never needed before,. but every day, I feel more and more like her.

So, smoking helps.

Turning off the news and lighting up the joint, I smoke in the silence of the kitchen until the joint burns down to nothing, scorching my fingers. Letting the small piece fall into the sink, I turn on the water, washing it down the drain before putting away the pot roast I made for us. My feet drag as I walk into my room. I stand at the door, looking at the man who has become my Achilles’ heel— a weakness that I need to deal with.

But maybe he can make me feel better...

And I him. Like I did with my mother.

I slip into bed beside him. His warmth envelops me like a blanket. Like a child, I angle myself so he’s holding me. Then, placing his arm over me, and throwing my leg over his lower half, I lay my head on his chest.

I used to listen to her heartbeat like this too until I realized it beat for no one but herself.

But he’s not her. He’s not the monster in this story.

I am.