The hooked carcass swayed in my kitchen door frame as I tore at each tendon with my antique J. Russell butcher knife. Blood gushed to the floor and pooled like glass beneath its ashen hand. The delicious feast of flesh would soon commence. My next victim was on her way to join me for this invigorating affair.
It was our first date, though I just hadn’t figured her out. I wanted to watch how her muscles moved and stretched beneath her skin. I wanted to inhale her feminine scent and sample the taste of her kiss.
The doorbell rang as I lit the last wick ablaze. I stately moved to the door, savoring the anticipation of our first nocturnal affair. Needles of excitement stabbed my palms, as I twisted the metal doorknob. She stood underneath the porch light, exhaling frosty breaths of arctic air. Snowflakes rested atop the strands of her wavy chestnut locks. I gazed into her icy blues and she smiled as she placed her burgundy nails on the door before strolling into the lion’s den.
She took off her mink fur coat and laid it over the chaise revealing her pronounced but fleshy clavicle. I licked my lips; my eyes followed her scenery south- down to her bulging cleavage. She sat down on my loveseat, her boned corset hugging her hourglass figure. The timer on the oven sounded ominously from the kitchen.
“It smells great. When do we eat?” She brushed her wispy bangs from her eyes.
I walked back to the kitchen, and poured us both a glass of red wine. The roast was ten more minutes away from perfection.
When I walked back in the living room, she was sprawled across the couch waiting for me. I sat down and handed her the glass of wine. She leaned into me. The smell of her cherry Chapstick was killing me with anticipation. A torrent of blood rushed to my ears, drowning out all sound.
I closed my eyes and envisioned being between her legs, tasting her supple lips, and gently pulling her hair. The five second dreamscape spun into the scenery of my dining room. She lay dead on my wooden table, wearing nothing but black and red undergarments and a garter belt. Tall wax candles cast shadows across her pale, porcelain skin. Rosemary garnish decorated her body. Her lifeless eyes stared up at me as I sat in my chair and enjoyed the taste of her meaty calf.
I opened my eyes to the erotic taste of her lips; her tongue danced playfully between mine. I smiled and leaned in for more.
A clean painless slice, a loss of breath, and a warm trickle flowed between my breasts. I fell into her arms as my wine glass shattered into a thousand pieces. My pristine love hovered over me and dragged my limp body back into the kitchen. She hurriedly guided a hook through my Achilles tendons and swept me off my feet. My black stiletto heels remained attached. My stained blonde tresses painted the floor with the life flowing out of me. I felt my heartbeat weaken and my consciousness slipping. She was just like me. I loved her. The victory of a fresh kill, the thrill of the hunt, it’s what I die for.
Clara Brown has been an aspiring writer for most of her life. Having a fascination with horror and dark literature, she has written numerous stories in that genre. Her most recent project is the thriller, Blood Sport and Black Stilettos, which was inspired by her experiences in pageantry. She has lived in Arizona for most of her life but decided to relocate to Germany to find inspiration and opportunities. www.facebook.com/authorclarabrown