She's a Man-Eater

9. James 3:6

Dark. Dark was the best word to describe death. Of course, murder in itself is a very dark subject– metaphorically speaking. But it was very literally dark as well.

Jesse turned the severed arm in her hands. The underside of the arm, the wrist and palm, had settled from a pale beige to a deep purple-blue color. After death, the blood stops circulating through the body. Then, it settles at the bottom. It was a quick process, beginning less than an hour after death. Jesse had seen it countless times, though she never took the time to appreciate it.

The body had been sitting for some time. The arm was stiff from rigor mortis, the underside would have been nearly blackened by now had Jesse not severed it from the rest of the body. Dried blood ran down the arm in a mix of crimson and rust colored streaks. Some of it caked and dried in the crevices of the watch she hadn't bothered to take off. She intertwined her fingers with those of the severed arm and looked over her shoulder at the rest of the body.

The body was whole, save for the arm Jesse held. It was pale and looked a bit ashy. She could see the purple bruise along the hips and sides. If she were to flip the body over perhaps it would be completely black on the other side. How long had she been sitting there? She stood, dropped the arm on the table, and got back to work.

In the months since Raymond's death, Jesse formed quite the collection of pictures. She kept them in the small antique box with a lock her mother gave her before she passed away. She had the only key to the box, but even so, she kept the box on the highest shelf in her closet. Out of sight. Rarely out of mind.

She took the box down occasionally for one of two reasons: to add a new picture, or to admire the ones she already had. Her favorite was the picture of Maren– though Maren's face was not visible in the picture. No, the only part of Maren in the photograph was her hands pinned to the wall, each of the severed fingers neatly pinned above their respective joint. In the corners of the picture the news reports were just visible.

The whole scene was far less barbaric than what she'd done with Arnold's remains. She didn't care to be "respectful" with the body, but the neater display felt more artistic to her. She wasn't sure why the photo of Maren in particular was her favorite, but it always seemed to shine more than the two others in the box.

Along with the pictures was a small portion of a printed news article. The article contained a picture of Pamela– taken during her statement to the public– and detailed the crimes of California's "Golden Coast Butcher". The police seemed quite sure the murderer was a man, and the public felt the name was fitting. Jesse didn't care for the title, but recognition was recognition in the end.

She stared at the contents of the box, holding her most recent picture between her middle and index fingers. The police had yet to find the body, and she couldn't decide if the picture should join the rest until it was discovered. After a moment of deliberation, she pushed the contents of the box to the side and set the most recent picture on the opposite side. It could join the rest after the body was found.

That made four pictures.

Four days, she suddenly recalled. It took only four days after Raymond's death for her to decide to kill Arnold. She closed the lid of the box and tapped her teeth. She was thinking about him too much lately; both now and when she momentarily mistook Pamela's voice for his. Behind her, she heard the quiet hum she'd heard in the police station when she met Pamela.

She looked over her shoulder, half expecting to see the lights, but instead Oliver stood in her doorway. He twisted the knob of the door, hiding half of his body behind it. He said nothing, but his eyes darted between her and the box.

Jesse quickly locked the box and asked, "How long have you been standing there?"

He pushed the door the rest of the way open and ran his fingers through his hair. "Sorry" he mumbled, "I was gonna ask you something, but you looked busy..."

Jesse turned away and slipped the box back onto the shelf. She shut her closet door and made her way across the room to Oliver, who only stared at her.

"Well? What did you want?"

He blinked and peered past her into the room. She closed the door slightly. "I just have an extra picture. It's blurry, but I didn't think it was a good idea to throw it away." He reached into his pocket and produced a small picture, "I thought you might want it."

He held the picture out to her and she took it from his hand. It was indeed blurry, as if his hands had been shaking when he took it. Despite that, it was still clear what the photograph was of. No, it wouldn't be a good idea to throw it away. But Jesse didn't want it with the rest of the collection. A blurry photo had no place in her collection.

She folded it and looked back to Oliver, who had inched away from the door. "We should burn it," she said, "I don't need it."

Oliver nodded and hesitantly took the folded picture back from Jesse and she promptly shut the door.

Alone again in her dimly lit room, Jesse looked down at the hand which had held the photograph. She'd been unable to get all of the dried blood off of her watch. She wouldn't be able to wear it anymore, not out of the house anyway. It didn't matter, she couldn't even recall where she got the watch.

Her fingers twitched as she turned her arm to look at her palm and wrist.

She felt unclean.