Read Online What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Zombier by Allison Wade - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Allison Wade
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to fall in love with a beast. Maybe I still believed in fairy tales and that you’ll become a prince. Or maybe the spell worked backwards, and I became the beast. A beast of burden with her back broken by your belt.
You swallow all the beer without even noticing if the taste is different. You burp like an animal, ignore me, and it’s a pleasant night when you forget I exist. I stay in the kitchen, polishing painstakingly the sink, while I wait for you to fall asleep. Ropes, duct tape, and everything are hidden in the trunk of my wreck of a car, that thing you’ll never even go near, that thing for sluts.
Finally, your eyes close, and you start snorting with noisy suctions.
I grab your legs and drag you down that couch that has become an extension of your butt. I hear delighted the bump that your head makes when it bangs on the floor. I drag you again, this time it’s me, the one who sweats and pants. We reach the shed. Later, I’ll think about erasing the tracks on the gravel you left crossing the garden.
I look around. It’s dark, the alley is quiet, it’s a private lane. No one will pass by here.
Putting you on the table is the hardest part. The fuck, how much do you weight, crappy man.
I broke my back, but I manage to hoist you. I tie your limbs to the table legs, but I’m not a Boy Scout or whatever it’s called in the female version. I can’t make sailor knots, but I can use a crochet hook and tie the roast, is it the same? I bind you tight until I almost stop your circulation.
I take my dear friend, the duct tape, which rolls out with a merry squeak. It can’t wait, too, like me. I stuck it on your mouth, make a turn around. I want to be sure that fucking hole will be shut for once.
How much time has passed? I sit beside you, waiting for you to wake up.
I thought so many times about how I would do it, every time that your shovel hands hit me, showing me the stars, every time your kicks opened me to new frontiers of pain. That time I almost died for internal bleeding, and you, innocent like a flower, told the doctor that I fell from the stairs. That pig like you believed it, without a moment of hesitation; otherwise, with whom would he have gone fishing on Sunday if you ended up in jail? That bitch who doesn’t know her place sure had what she deserved.
I thought so many times about how to make you disappear, because obviously I don’t want to go behind bars being raped by some sturdy lesbian. I had enough of you, love. Every time you put me at ninety degrees, and you pushed until I bumped my head to the headboard of the bed, like a fucking blow up doll.
And then I figured out the right way; I’ve been inspired watching one of that TV shows about serial killers, that bullshit, as you call them. I got a lot of black bags and this sharp and shiny ax – it was my father’s, that was a woodsman. I went to visit him last week, do you remember? When I came back late and the dinner wasn’t ready and you beat me up, banging my head on the oven door. You can be so imaginative sometimes, my love; one wouldn’t tell by looking at you that you could have something creative inside. But I know in how many creative ways you can show me hell.
Finally, you start to recover. I hear you mumble, even if you’re still numb. You realize that something is wrong. You feel the rope, you feel muffled. Your eyes open wide in fear, you try to move, sweating even more, making the table shake with your weight, and then you see me, your eyes flare up. I see the sparkle of hatred that lingers at the bottom; I can distinctly read the stream of insults that you’re addressing me, because you’ve already figured out that I was the one who did this. Whore, slut, bitch. Sing again your anger, your thirst for violence.
I approach and smile; I’m happy you woke up, my love. I show you the edge of the ax, and your expression changes drastically. You’ve gone white. Your eyes are dark pits of fear. Now you’re imploring me.
You swallow all the beer without even noticing if the taste is different. You burp like an animal, ignore me, and it’s a pleasant night when you forget I exist. I stay in the kitchen, polishing painstakingly the sink, while I wait for you to fall asleep. Ropes, duct tape, and everything are hidden in the trunk of my wreck of a car, that thing you’ll never even go near, that thing for sluts.
Finally, your eyes close, and you start snorting with noisy suctions.
I grab your legs and drag you down that couch that has become an extension of your butt. I hear delighted the bump that your head makes when it bangs on the floor. I drag you again, this time it’s me, the one who sweats and pants. We reach the shed. Later, I’ll think about erasing the tracks on the gravel you left crossing the garden.
I look around. It’s dark, the alley is quiet, it’s a private lane. No one will pass by here.
Putting you on the table is the hardest part. The fuck, how much do you weight, crappy man.
I broke my back, but I manage to hoist you. I tie your limbs to the table legs, but I’m not a Boy Scout or whatever it’s called in the female version. I can’t make sailor knots, but I can use a crochet hook and tie the roast, is it the same? I bind you tight until I almost stop your circulation.
I take my dear friend, the duct tape, which rolls out with a merry squeak. It can’t wait, too, like me. I stuck it on your mouth, make a turn around. I want to be sure that fucking hole will be shut for once.
How much time has passed? I sit beside you, waiting for you to wake up.
I thought so many times about how I would do it, every time that your shovel hands hit me, showing me the stars, every time your kicks opened me to new frontiers of pain. That time I almost died for internal bleeding, and you, innocent like a flower, told the doctor that I fell from the stairs. That pig like you believed it, without a moment of hesitation; otherwise, with whom would he have gone fishing on Sunday if you ended up in jail? That bitch who doesn’t know her place sure had what she deserved.
I thought so many times about how to make you disappear, because obviously I don’t want to go behind bars being raped by some sturdy lesbian. I had enough of you, love. Every time you put me at ninety degrees, and you pushed until I bumped my head to the headboard of the bed, like a fucking blow up doll.
And then I figured out the right way; I’ve been inspired watching one of that TV shows about serial killers, that bullshit, as you call them. I got a lot of black bags and this sharp and shiny ax – it was my father’s, that was a woodsman. I went to visit him last week, do you remember? When I came back late and the dinner wasn’t ready and you beat me up, banging my head on the oven door. You can be so imaginative sometimes, my love; one wouldn’t tell by looking at you that you could have something creative inside. But I know in how many creative ways you can show me hell.
Finally, you start to recover. I hear you mumble, even if you’re still numb. You realize that something is wrong. You feel the rope, you feel muffled. Your eyes open wide in fear, you try to move, sweating even more, making the table shake with your weight, and then you see me, your eyes flare up. I see the sparkle of hatred that lingers at the bottom; I can distinctly read the stream of insults that you’re addressing me, because you’ve already figured out that I was the one who did this. Whore, slut, bitch. Sing again your anger, your thirst for violence.
I approach and smile; I’m happy you woke up, my love. I show you the edge of the ax, and your expression changes drastically. You’ve gone white. Your eyes are dark pits of fear. Now you’re imploring me.
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