Crave

 I woke up with the strangest craving today. 

            I awoke in a place that was not my own . . . a place not unfamiliar to me. 

This craving . . . rumbled in my gut, forcing me bolt upright in bed.  Loud, deliberate, and insistent, I could not ignore it.  I had to heed its call.

           My lover lay next to me, sleeping peacefully on his back; his steady breathing like the tide caressing the shore . . . in and out . . . his bare chest rising and falling . . . the muscles in his neck contracting with each sigh, each swallow . . . veins blue beneath his skin . . . I could almost see the blood pulsing underneath. . . .

“Darling,” I said, “How about breakfast in bed?”

“Mh. . . .” he tried to speak, barely conscious.  “M’not hun—gry. . . .” he slurred, rolling over.

My grin spread ear to ear, showing all my teeth.  I flicked open my knife—the spring-assist camouflage one I always keep with me—a gift from a former paramour. 

“I didn’t mean for you,” I uttered as I leapt on top of him, plunging my blade into his jugular and sawing downwards a bit—like you do with cows—so the blood flows out of the hole and arterial spray is minimal. 

I put my lips to the wound, filling my mouth, taking in the sweet, warm, metallic nectar. 

He struggled.

He tried to cry out, but only emitted feeble choking sounds. 

When he was drained of his blood, and his life, I kissed his lips for a long time.

Then I looked down.

I’ve always had a thing about forearms.

My knife tip found the elbow joint quite easily.  I twisted until I felt a pop and the appendage came free, a string of synovial fluid oozing after it.

There was no time to prepare a stew or roast; I had to have that saccharine, raw wet flesh on my tongue here and now.  He made a lean, firm aperitif, but there really wasn’t much usable meat on the carcass.  I wanted more. 

I took a shower, rinsed his blood from my face and neck, and out from under my fingernails.  I pulled the bloody sheets up over his head, and said goodbye for the last time. 

When I got home, I put a large stockpot full of water on the stove to boil, and turned on the oven.  I dimmed the lights, and lit some candles. 

Then I called up an old flame.

He came through the back door, all swagger and smugness. 

“Hey doll-face; you look good enough to eat.”  He sniffed the air, “Mmm, what’s cookin’?”

I knew he’d show; the prospect of carnal pleasure was simply too tantalizing.  Little did he know . . . it wasn’t dessert I was after.

“I’m going to devour you.” 

This morning’s meal was rushed; over too quickly.  This time I will be satisfied.

We started in the kitchen, of course. 

With a cast iron skillet to the back of the head. 

It made a sound like a gong and he fell to his knees—my favorite position for a man. 

But . . . he stood back up, one hand cradling his battered skull, the other grabbing the chef’s knife from my knife block.

“Bastard.  That’s my favorite knife.”

The smirk on his face was all the reply he needed.  He was ready for a brawl. 

He lunged at me and the cast iron now became a shield, but with its weight I wasn’t sure how long I could keep it up.  I backed into my living room, desperately searching for anything I could use to fight back.  Then I saw it. 

I flung the frying pan at him, missed, and as it clattered to the floor I dove for the tire thumper signed by Flogging Molly that I had been gifted by an old boyfriend.  But he was faster, and knocked me down before I could get to it, scraping my arm with the blade.  It wasn’t deep, but it bled a lot.  I scrambled backwards on my butt and hands, away from him and into the darkened bedroom.  My back bumped into the bed; nowhere left to run.  I glanced up; he stood over me, vengeance in his eyes, the gleaming knife blade pointed right at my heart. 

“Thought you usually aim for the back,” I remarked sarcastically.

“For you I make an exception,” was his retort. 

He reared back, preparing to strike; I had one chance.  With my right hand, I reached across my chest and seized the handle of the machete I keep tucked between my mattress and box-spring, which had been sticking out near my left ear.  I swung the giant blade horizontally in front of me, dragging it across his shins as I rolled to my right and out of his reach.  He tumbled to the floor and roared in pain. 

As I got to my feet I laughed, “That shit fuckin’ hurts,” indicating the gaping slits in his shins now spurting blood all over my beautiful hardwood.  I kicked the knife out of his hand and placed the tip of the machete gently against his throat, “Maybe if you’d paid better attention to something other than yourself . . . you’d have remembered where I stash my knives.” 

I grabbed a Benchmade knife out of the nightstand, given to me by a former Marine, given to him by his platoon commander upon arrival for his first of three tours in the Middle East.  (Yes, I am that person.  People just randomly bestow weapons upon me.)  This knife typically hangs off my belt while I’m on my motorcycle; all the boys envy it.  Discarding the machete in favor of this more maneuverable weapon, I crouched down, straddling my victim. I leaned over and put my mouth next to his ear and whispered, “Now you know:  never break a butcher’s heart.”

Summoning all my strength, I raised the knife over my head with both hands, and thrust it through his sternum and into his heart as deep as it would go.  His eyes widened in surprise, as if he still couldn’t believe it; convulsions wracked his body; blood gurgled out of his mouth and dripped down his cheek.  Finally he fell still, glassy eyes staring off into nothing.

            An hour later I was singing under my breath as I stirred the contents of my giant stockpot; apron tied around my waist, the wound on my arm cleansed and bandaged. 

            “. . . tempting, delicious, and oh so sweet. . . .”

            There came a knock at the door.

            Still humming, I plucked my spotless chef’s knife from the drying rack and held it behind my back as I went to see who it was.

            “Evening Miss.”

            “Good evening officer; how delightful to see you.”

            “I’m uh, I’m sorry to bother you, but we received a call about a disturbance at this address.  Someone reported . . . strange noises.  Do you mind if I come in and have a look around?”

            “Not at all,” I replied, holding the door open for him.

            “Smells delicious,” he commented as he walked past the pot happily bubbling atop the stove.

“Would you like me to fix you a plate?”

            “No thank you ma’am, I’m not hungry.”

            My stomach growled and I licked my teeth as I shut and locked the door behind him.  “Really?  I’m famished.” 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

**DISCLAIMER** 

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION, YO.  So keep your panties on.  Especially you.  Yeah, you back there; don’t act like you don’t know who I’m talking to.  Don’t nobody wanna see that.   

And if you’re a Nekromantix fan, yes it was inspired by: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SHXBKWLMP18