I used to think that after death feelings no longer existed. I used to think that there was some sort of afterlife. I used to think that movies over exaggerated the whole 'in between' idea. That was before. Now, here I lay.
He put me here, but I cannot help but feel at least partially responsible for this ending. Isn't it my fault for getting involved? If only I had ignored his claims of love. I wish I could go back.
If the police were to find me now, what would they think? Would they be able to recognize these pieces of the body that once was? I know I no longer do. He cut my body into pieces long before he brought out the knife.
His hand was always so warm in mine, and I cherished being in his presence. He talked to me like we were equals, and he made me so happy to be alive. His eyes were like a crisp glass of water on a hot summer morning. He was always looking at me with such curiosity. At least, I thought it was curiosity.
I realized too late that I had it wrong. Those eyes and that look were more closely related to creepy, sadistic thought than innocent curiosity. It was a game. I was a game. Now here I lay.
We met at that party. You know the one. The one with all the college kids and the kegger. The one with all the bright noises that filled the room more than all of the people. I was wearing a black tank top, denim miniskirt, with wedges on my feet to appear older for all of the college boys. I was new to this type of scene, and I did not want to be ignored. He was wearing a plain white t shirt and ripped-up blue jeans. I had noticed him, but I was too insecure to approach. He made the first move.
"Let me get you a drink," he said casually, pushing his fingers through his midnight hair. He didn't wait for a response, instead moving his fingers down to lock gently around my left wrist. I walked with him over to the refreshments as if I had a choice. He only let me go when the solo cup was in my hand. "Drink," he commanded. I'd never been that bold, so I followed his directions. The beer was bitter, and I nearly gagged, but I continued to drink under his watchful eye. The world slowly faded around the edges, and the crowd seemed to disappear. My cup never ran out, and the taste eventually got better. He never had anything to drink.
I woke up the next morning in his bedroom. My head was pounding, and my stomach was churning. I sat up slowly, and he was sitting up, looking down at me. I remembered talking to him about our lives, and I remember the fading noises, but then my memories ended. I became self-consciously aware of my miniskirt feeling slightly off and my wedges laying on the floor. When I asked, he told me nothing happened. I believed all of his lies.
He took me out for breakfast, and let me wear his sunglasses to cover up my pain from the previous night. I ate chocolate chip pancakes. He ordered coffee.
When he dropped me off, he took my phone number. He has since taken everything else.
He used to pick me up every other weekend. We would drive around, but we never stopped. Whenever he would drop me off, he demanded a kiss. I used to ask why we never went out anywhere. He would say he hated the fakeness public places required.
My parents used to ask where I was going. I told them I was going out with my best friend. They stopped asking, and I stopped lying. He never came inside to meet my parents. The reason why is now crystal clear.
Once he discovered my father is on the police squad, he knew that he had to get out of here. He had gotten too close, so it was time for him to move on. I knew him, though, and he knew that I was close to discovering the monster underneath. I was a smart girl, but I was not smart enough. He took care of me just like the others, and then he left. Now here I lay.
