Accelerating Appetites
by Autumn Bettinger
When you showed up in fourth period history, I knew you were going to be a mistake. You were brooding, sexy, clearly uninterested in learning as you sized up your new classmates. I wasn’t the only girl to watch you in your black shirt and worn jeans, your dark hair tousled just so. Even the popular girls wanted you, I could hear them whispering from the back of the room about your future chances for football tryouts. I knew better. From the moment I caught your eyes and we stared one another down, neither of us willing to blink. I wanted you then, when I saw you play with something in your jacket pocket, something that had worn its mark in the bottom right corner. I knew exactly what lurked in there and smiled as I saw you blink.
The day you kissed me I kept my hands on your jacket, feeling for the blade. Your fingers were pulling at my neck, my hair, uninterested in the knife. I realized I could have lifted it then, but I was hungry for that kiss.
Two days later you stabbed my ex in the leg, right in the artery, before jerking the blade up in a ragged series of cuts. My ex bled out behind the bleachers. That night we made love for the first time, and you were ravenous. John was declared missing the next day, and his body was recovered in the river a week later. I was part of the search party. You held me that night they found him. You held me and then your hands went from comfort to caresses and you were devouring me again.
On our one-month anniversary, you punched me for trying to keep you from attacking a group of drunk kids from the next town over. We were walking in the cool March air, frost under foot, and the kids started asking me for money, cigarettes, a kiss. I laughed it off, but I watched you tense up; I saw your fingers inch towards the right pocket, and I shot my hand out, yanking your wrist from your jacket. You hit me then, so hard in the temple that I fell and nearly blacked out. You watched me, quiet for a moment, and then you turned back to the kids.
I was dizzy, I don’t really know what I saw. I know what I heard. A lot of wet gurgles, some shouts, slicing. My vision was still dark when your hand gently threaded around my waist and picked me up. You were covered in blood and when I could focus, you were smiling. You didn’t have to say I couldn’t go to the police, or you would kill me. You didn’t have to say much of anything, and when you kissed me that night, you tasted like psychosis and menthols.
When you told me you loved me it was with a knife to my neck. I pressed forward, etching a thin line of red pearls along my throat. I wrapped my fingers around the blade and lifted it out of your hands before pushing you down into that black void of sex and consumption. While I slept you must have read my texts, because that morning you tried to stab my best friend for telling me I was in an abusive relationship. That’s when you realized I still had your knife, and after bludgeoning my best friend with a brick, came to find me.
I met you at the door, eyes locking onto yours just like our meet-cute. I smiled the same smile as my arm licked out to slice into your stomach. Your hands went to your wound, and I jerked the knife upwards. It was harder than I thought, tearing into you like that. I thought human flesh would slice easy, like in the movies, but it was thicker, more resistant. You growled and shot your arm out. Your hand found my throat, but your grip was weak, and I smiled wider. I pulled you into me, kissing you, as I felt your blood soak into my dress.
My mom sat on the living room couch, having a cocktail, and making a face at the blood that squelched along the tiles of the mudroom as I kicked the door closed and started dragging you deeper into the house.
“This is him?” My mom asked.
“This is him.” I said, letting go of your ankles as your legs flopped to the floor and you groaned.
“He’s handsome.” She smiled, looking over her glass to assess the growing puddle of blood. “You should finish him, honey. He’s suffered enough.”
“Has he?” I asked, wiping sweat from my forehead. “He hit me.”
“Yes, well, your father hit me too and I made it quick.”
“Fine.” I say, rolling you over and straddling you. Your eyes are cloudy, but you manage to focus on me. I wait for you to blink before ripping the knife out of your chest.
“We couldn’t just bury him at Nana’s like you did with dad?” I ask, looking for the gas can we tucked inside the pantry.
“Honey, two women in the same family with missing lovers is suspicious. A fire is not. He was a reckless boy; no cop is going to blame you for that maniac breaking into our house and trying to kill us. We just got the upper hand and managed to escape.” She took a sip of her cocktail and wrinkled her nose as the blood soaked into the hallway rug. “Now. Let’s make it realistic. I don’t think anyone saw him come here, so we’re going to have to do some screaming.”
And so, we did. We screamed for you to put down the gas. To put down the knife. We screamed that the house was on fire. And then we were running out, covered in blood, coughing. And the cops believed us because you were the psychopath.
You were.
You.
Autumn Bettinger is a full-time mother of two in Portland, Oregon. When not changing diapers or scrubbing jelly off the walls, she can be found in her office before the rest of the family wakes up, writing short stories and nurturing her coffee addiction. You can find her on Instagram @pnwmountainmommy where she documents her kids, her dog, and some of her writing accomplishments.