Wounded Beast (Gypsy Heroes)

‘Do you want to hear this story or not?’

‘Go on,’ I say, and reach for the bottle again.

‘She takes all the ingredients out, and basically shows her granddaughter that the carrots went in strong and hard and came out soft and malleable. The eggs went in soft and came out hardened. Only the coffee beans elevated themselves to another level, released their fragrance and flavor, and changed the water. So all three objects faced the same suffering and adversity, but each reacted differently. When the situation gets hot, you have to decide which are you.’

I put the bottle down. ‘I feel like the carrots at the moment.’

‘That’s today. What will you be tomorrow and the day after?’

I drop my forehead into my palm. ‘Oh, Anna. My life is such a mess. I thought I was in such a good place—and now look at me! My world was like a bubble waiting to pop.’

‘Hey, look on the bright side. At least she’s dead.’

‘What?’ I gasp.

‘Yeah. At least she’s not around to disturb your fragile peace of mind with cruel physical comparisons.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean I have a raging aversion to all my boyfriend’s exes. Like, seriously detest, abhor, and hate them. I get so jealous that I can’t stop pouring over their Facebook photos to examine their tans, their smiles, their outfits, in the hope of finding faults so that later I can subtly criticize them while in conversation with my boyfriend.’

She stops and picks at her nail polish.

‘In fact, one or two I’ve hated so much I even fantasized about breaking into their houses and stabbing them while they slept in their beds.’

‘Really?’ I ask, shocked.

‘Absolutely. It’s petty and childish, but I can’t help it. It’s like an addiction because I’m so insecure. I feel as if I’m in competition with them. I’d much rather a dead girlfriend who looks like me.’

‘No, I’d rather have an ex who’s alive. I can’t even consider pouring over her Facebook pictures to subtly criticize her because she’s been put on some kind of pedestal. I mean how do you compete against a dead woman?’ I ask garrulously.

‘God! I hate exes. Alive or dead, they’re just trouble. Talking about exes, I forgot to ask before, have you heard from your stalker?’

I shrug. ‘I think I frightened him off.’

‘No more midnight phone calls?’

‘No more,’ I mumble. The room has started to spin. ‘I need to pee and to get to bed,’ I say, and stand up unsteadily.

She stands and we use the bathroom together. Then she helps me to bed.

‘Sleep next to me,’ I tell her.

She smiles down at me. There’s a strange, pitying look on her face as she stands over me.

TWENTY-FOUR

I stand over her and a thrill runs through me.

I am in her space, her bedroom! How strange that hatred, in its intensity and viscosity, should be so similar to passion. Look at her! Sleeping the gentle sleep of angels. So beautiful. So innocent. Bitch!

I take a step closer. My shoes are soft-soled and make no sound. It is a warm night and a window is open. Gentle breezes make the curtains flutter. Otherwise, everything is perfectly still. It is dark, but my eyes are accustomed to the dark. I have embraced the dark, made it my friend, taken it and its terrible secrets into my heart.

I bend down so that I am only a few inches from her skin.

How sweet and divine she smells. And yet, she destroyed me without a second thought. I still remember the first time I saw her waltzing across a room and thought, wow! She’s hot. I didn’t know she was a half-woman, half-serpent. But I was a man then.

She changed me, made me into the thing I am now, a shell. I loved her for so long. But there is nothing in my life now except this all-consuming obsession I have for her. Look at her throat. The seductive curve begs you to kiss it, wrap your fingers possessively around it, and squeeze it, until her eyes fly open and watch you in horror even as her pussy curls helplessly around your rock-hard dick.