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eleven

Phantom Limbs and Other Ghosts

Silas

" W ell, that was easy," Tate laughs as we leave the parking lot. "You can wipe that fucking look off your face now."

I shoot him a side-eyed glare before turning back to the road.

"Yep, that's the one."

"Breaking into cars doesn't worry me," I tell him. "I'm worried about being on this side of the border. It's not smart—coming here. We've already been here too long."

"We need guns…and money. There's no better place to get those things than here, and you can't argue against that. I mean, we just found three of them in unlocked cars in a Walmart parking lot."

"Again, that isn't what I'm arguing with."

"You know, I thought you'd be happy to see Noah again," Tate says. "Oh, turn here. Take the scenic byway."

Of course, I want to see Noah. There's still a part of me that thinks maybe this is fate, because at the exact time we decided to come back, a video went viral of a girl from a nearby town who looked like a redheaded version of Noah. When Tate first showed it to me, I wasn't convinced. It was grainy, she looked too skinny, and none of them quite caught her eyes. That's what I looked for as I scrolled through the videos and still photos—I just needed to see my girl's eyes.

That didn't happen, but I landed in the comment section, where someone who claimed to work with her gave her full name: Lilah Watts.

We named her Delilah. And Watts is my last name.

She gave them my last name as her own. That's how I knew.

Relief washed over me. I spent so many nights lying awake, wondering what happened to Noah. When she was able to stay out of the news, I assumed she was dead. I worried it was brutal…or slow and gruesome, something much worse than whatever Tate had planned.

But he said he knew. He knew she was alive. It was that part that kept him awake at night. I'm not sure what he's going to do about it. He told me he won't kill her—that he just wants to play a game with her, and if I let him, he'll leave her alone. I'm unsure what caused the change of heart, but he's never lied to me before, so I believe him.

Maybe, after seeing her, he was never going to do it. You never know how you're going to react at a visceral level when you see someone you used to love for the first time. After Noah ghosted me, I was hurt. I tried to accept it, but that hurt grew to anger, and with nowhere to go, that anger convinced me I'd be okay with killing her and Tate would be better for it.

Still, as much as I want to see her, I don't think Noah is going to be happy to see either of us, and I don't want to fuck up her life again. I started all of this, and I know that. Maybe I should have kept her to myself; we never had any rules for what we'd been doing—not before her. We pretended it was casual, even though it hadn't been for quite some time. But I knew my feelings for her were becoming a problem, and he looked at her, too. I watched him stare at her thighs; I watched the way his eyes dropped to her chest when she spoke to him. I listened to the things he said about her and to her when she was drinking, and it didn't sound like he was joking.

So, one day, I told Tate how I felt about Noah, and then I watched the wheels turning in his head when he smiled and said, I think this could really work out.

And it did—for a while. The three of us really worked out well before Mia found out and Tate fucked it all up. The two of them are—or were, in Mia's case—both rage-fueled nightmares who would rather make someone else sorry than ever fucking be sorry.

It's easier to be the offended party than it is to admit what you did was wrong. So Tate and Mia were the offended parties, and Noah was punished for it.

We fought about it for months—because I wanted him to tell Mia the truth and be sorry. And he wanted to make Noah sorrier. It drove a rift between Tate and Mia, too, because she never believed him, and he refused to admit the truth. So, in both of their stubbornness, Mia lost more than just her best friend, and she was that much more lonely in the end.

I'd never point that out, though. There's no way he's unaware; he just…needs it to go somewhere else.

His pain manifests itself through fucking and hurting others. And I'm not much better because I'm more than happy to assist him with both, and I kind of started that, too…because I beat a man to death behind a bar once, and it turned out he was the kind of man no one missed.

No one ever came for us. No one ever knocked on my door. My picture was never on television or in the paper.

Tate loved it. And after a couple of weeks passed, I was able to admit that I loved it, too. It made me feel powerful—like I could do whatever I wanted and no one could stop me.

Like a god…just like Tate said.

It was Christmas of that year when he first suggested we kill Noah. We'd gone to this cabin not far from town that was empty almost year-round. We'd go there from time to time to drink and fuck without limits; we brought Noah there a few times, too. He was drunk and in his feels, and he missed her. I knew he missed her and had missed her the entire time, even if he wouldn't say it aloud.

"I was good to her," he'd say over and over again whenever he got drunk. He'd say it enough that I'm sure he was trying to convince himself, and it wasn't working. "She's heartless. I bet if we sliced her in half and opened up her chest cavity, there'd be nothing there." Then he rolled over, wrapping his hand around my cock, stroking it while he said, "I think we should find out."

I told him no, that I wouldn't hurt Noah. I told him for the thousandth time that if he doesn't want Noah anymore—if he doesn't love her, and he insisted he didn't—then he needs to stop doing this and let her go.

"I can't," he says. "She takes up too much space in my head—in my cellular makeup. Does that make sense? She haunts too many places in my memories and too many spaces in my head. Like this place…don't you feel it? It's dirty here now."

"I feel it. Just not the way you do."

While I'm angry with Noah for leaving me, too, and sometimes, I want to hurt her, I don't want to hurt her like that. I want to tie her to the bed and fuck her into submission and only let her go when she wants me again. I have this fucked up fantasy where she shows up at my door, pregnant and scared, and I'd take care of her, and then she'd never be able to leave me. In this fantasy, Tate is angry at first, but it doesn't take long for him to come around. I know he loves her, even though he lies about it, just like I know she loves him, whether she wants to or not.

I can't blame her for not wanting to—he doesn't always make it easy. But when he does, it's really easy. Like breathing.

"Well, how can you stand it?" he asks. "It feels like someone cut off a part of me—an arm, maybe—and I know where that arm is, and that arm is just fine, living a better, more privileged version of life without a fucking care in the world, and I'm incomplete. I'm dirty and haunted, and I can still feel that fucking arm."

I know the answer, but I know it isn't something I can tell him. He wouldn't like it, and he wouldn't accept it.

But the very real difference is that it wasn't my fault. Noah hurt me, but I didn't hurt Noah like he did—or like Mia did. I loved her, and she knows it because I told her.

That's why Tate is haunted. Because he hurt her, and it's his fault she's gone now, and he knows it.

"I want to do it, though," he said, teasing the head of my dick with his thumb. "I want to kill someone…like you did. I want to know what it feels like."

"Not Noah," I groan, gritting my teeth as my dick swells in his fist.

"Someone no one will notice is missing," Tate said. "Just to see how it feels. You liked how it felt, didn't you? Crushing his face with your bare hands?"

My cock jumps, precum leaking from the tip. Yeah, I fucking liked it, and he knows it, too.

Moving onto all fours, he licks my cum from the head, swirling his pierced tongue around the tip before taking me so far in his throat that his lips almost touch the base.

I don't know how he does it, but it drives me fucking crazy.

I need him to move; I need him to slide those lips, that fucking tongue back down my cock, but he holds it there, moaning around me, the vibrations making me writhe beneath him as he squeezes my balls.

Finally, he gives me what I want, sliding his tongue back up my cock. I move onto my knees, gripping the sides of his head in my hands, and he sucks while I fuck his face the way I wanted to, stroking himself with his free hand.

The sight of it sends me reeling. I slide my hands down the sides of his face until they're wrapped around his throat and squeeze.

Tate sputters, his face turning red as he loses oxygen. I know when to stop, but I'm so close, I don't want to.

His hand rolls over my hip, wrapping around me until his fingers slip inside my ass, applying pressure in just the right place while I fuck his face, maintaining the same brutal pace, and I explode, coming hard down his throat. When I finally pull out, he swallows before collapsing on his back with his hard cock still in his hand, gasping for air, licking his lips clean when the color comes back to his face .

I take over stroking his dick, wrapping my fist tightly around his base before sliding it upward over the thick tip and back down again.

"Tomorrow," he groans, still trying to catch his breath. "Tomorrow, I want to do it, and I want you to help me. I think I'd like to use a knife. Fuck…"

"That could get messy," I tell him.

"I want it to be messy—fuck, that feels good. Lick it…please. Put your mouth on it."

I grip the base, licking up and down the length of him while he squirms before swallowing his cock.

"Oh, yes," he whimpers with relief. "Oh, fuck, that feels good. Shit."

I taste his cum on my tongue before he thrusts up into my mouth.

"Then I want to fuck next to the body," he grunts as his eyes roll back in his head and spurts of cum hit the back of my throat. "Ah, fuck. I want to look into their cold, dead eyes while I fuck your mouth. I want to feel like a god."

The next day, we went for a walk and found a man ice fishing on the lake. Tate approached him, started asking him a lot of questions about ice fishing, and found out he was also the kind of person no one would notice was missing: no job, divorced, no living relatives, and a criminal record. He always spent Christmas out here alone, and it would be a while before anyone looked for him, if they ever did.

Tate stabbed him through the eye. He flopped around on the ice for a while, just like the fish he'd pulled from beneath its surface, before he died. When he finally stopped, I sucked him off like he wanted, and we dropped him through the hole in the ice. Tate was ecstatic, but on the way home, complained that man's winter gear made for a less than optimal experience. He would have liked to stab the soft parts—would have preferred it to be messier, to see more blood.

"Next time," he promised.

I explained to him all the logistical reasons we couldn't just go around killing people, and he assured me he wouldn't—not unless someone really deserved it.

We've had to have that same talk several times since, and yet, here we are, looking for someone who won't be missed again. Sure, there's a purpose behind it, but I know part of that purpose is just to scratch an itch. I wish I could say that I didn't want to scratch it, too, but I can't. And so, I drive well under the speed limit down the scenic byway in the dark, looking for trailheads with low traffic where someone maybe didn't make it back before nightfall.

"Whoa, slow down," Tate says. "Over there."

I pull the car off to the side of the road, parking beside a pickup truck and an old, faded trailhead sign.

Glacier Falls Loop: 2.4 miles.

"It's a loop," Tate says. "That should make it easy. You go one way, I'll go the other."

I nod before getting out of the car, then approach the old pickup truck and peer into the windows, trying to get a read on its owner. No car seat, no toys. No sign of anything definitively female, either—just an old flannel on the passenger side and a few canisters of chewing tobacco—one on the dash, and a couple on the floor.

I try the handle, finding it unlocked, and open the glove box. "Check it out," I say to Tate, holding up another hand gun.

"What'd I tell you?" Tate says. "It's too easy here."

"Yeah." I open the trunk, pull back the lining, and stash the weapon with the others.

"I'm going left," Tate says, starting on the trail before me. He's eager, and he knows he's more likely to run into whoever is out there before me if he goes that way. Still, I let him, stuffing my hands in my pockets and heading right, following footprints on the dark mountain trail, lightly covered in snow. It's not unusual for this time of year at this altitude, and any local would know this, but it makes the trail difficult to stick to, and it makes me wonder if whoever is out there might have gotten turned around.

Knowing my strides are longer than Tate's and that I don't need to be quiet and sneak up on my prey because it doesn't matter anyway, I quicken my pace, not quite running down the loop trail. After about twenty minutes of this, I hear voices—Tate's and that of another male.

"I'm glad I ran into you," Tate says. "I think I might be lost. I've been trying to find my way back to the trailhead for about an hour now, and my phone's dead. Can I follow you out of here?"

"You're fucking with me, right?" the man says.

Now, I do slow my pace, carefully closing in on him so the man doesn't realize he's been cornered.

"What do you mean?" Tate asks.

"You don't look like the hiking type," the man says. "If you want to suck my dick, just say that."

I'm close enough now to see Tate smile. "Okay," he says. "I want to suck your dick. "

I step behind a tree as the man turns, scanning the area for other hikers.

"You see any other cars out there?" he asks Tate.

"Nope," Tate says. "Just your truck."

He gestures for Tate to follow him, walking a few paces back into the forest before he stops, and I hear him fumbling with his belt.

"I'm not gay," the man says. "I had a wife, but the bitch left me."

Tate scoffs. "Yeah, okay. Are you going to come in my mouth or bore me to death with your pathetic life story?"

"Shut the fuck up!" the man shouts.

It makes me more than a little uncomfortable, and I decide to move in on him, less concerned with whether or not he hears me.

"Make me," Tate says, smiling as his eyes meet mine.

"All right, get the fuck over here," the man says, letting his pants fall to his ankles. As Tate takes a step toward him, I reach around the tree and grab the man by the arms, holding them back by the wrists.

"What the fuck?" the man screams as he struggles against my hold. "Let me go! I'm going to fucking kill you!"

I laugh a little as he struggles ineffectually against my hold. He's no match for my size and strength, and it barely fazes me.

"Okay, I get it," the guy says, forcing a laugh. "But I'm not really into this kind of thing, all right?"

Tate smiles as he pulls out his knife. "I don't really care what you're into. "

"W—what are you…oh, fuck!" the man says, resuming his panic. "Help! Help me!"

Tate laughs. "He's crying."

"Stop playing with your fucking food, Tate, or I'll do it myself!"

"Fine," Tate groans, rolling his eyes.

"No!" the man screams.

Tate pulls the knife back before repeatedly driving it into the soft flesh of his lower abdomen. The man screams until he can't, and when I feel his arms go slack, I release them, letting him fall to the ground.

"That was too easy," Tate complains. "I prefer at least a little bit of fight—makes it more exciting. I like that he cried, though."

"Whatever," I tell him. "We'll toss him over that ledge, and no one will find the body for a long time—if ever."

I grab the half-naked man under the shoulders and drag him in that direction, but Tate stops me. "Wait," he says. "I want the arm."

"The whole arm?" I ask. "I thought you said a finger."

"I want the arm," he says again. "I'll need you to break the bone first, but I know that won't be a problem for you."

No, it won't.

I let the body flop onto the snow-covered ground again. "Do you have a preference on which arm?"

Tate shrugs. "I don't, but thanks for asking. You're very considerate when you want to be."

I roll my eyes and then grab the right arm by its wrist, pulling it until it's at about a forty-five-degree angle .

And then, I stomp it in half.

"Nice," Tate says. "Very nice."

He kneels in the snow and begins sawing through the flesh. Once the arm detaches, we drag the body to the ledge and throw it into the ravine.

We retrieve the arm on the way back, stashing it in our cooler in the backseat.

"Let me know if you get hungry," Tate says.

"Yeah, I'm not doing that again."

"Really? I'd do it if you would. I feel like it was a really good bonding experience. No?"

I ignore him, keeping my eyes fixed on the highway.

He shrugs. "Ah, well. Next stop: Winter Falls. Whatever the fuck that is."