I'll Have You
By Elizabeth Board
"I'll have you." he whispered, kissing her forehead, drawing out the silence with his lips. She only looked up at him with disbelieving, jaded eyes. Eyes that didn't care what that statement meant, only that his arms were around her, in her mind, she was loved. He stroked her hair, patting it out of her eyes, brushing it away with a skillful hand. He looked deep into the shimmering shaking orbs and told her she was damaged, she broke eye contact and forced a far away smile in response. He told her that the pain he saw in her eyes was something he'd never seen in anyone before, she heard him say she was special. He didn't say that, word-for-word, but it is what was meant. He kissed her cheek, tasting the salty burn of long held back tears, then her lips, feeling her body shudder as she cried. And despite his love for her, he thought she was pretty when she cried, pitiful, his. Sadism reaching its peak as he cradled her in his arms. He mumbled beautiful words in her hair, what she heard of it only made her cry harder, in disbelief. No one had ever spoken this way to her; no one had ever loved her.
The clock was a glowing green demon crouching on the dash as he drove her home and a final good night kiss led to her strutting through his high beams, across the driveway and up her sidewalk. Home. His words still lingering in her thoughts, still blending and bleeding together. Alive. I'll have you. He sat in her driveway, for close to an hour, no one noticing him there as he caught his breath. He'd told her such personal things; let her know how much he loved her. Love was the only emotion capable of what he wanted to do. He drove away, parking at some not so far off spot and lighting up the orange bulb of a cigarette, feeling his racing heart slow, his body cool. Then she appeared, an apparition in the fog, walking slowly down the street, stealthful. He flicked the cigarette out the window and she sauntered into the passenger's seat and leaned back against the leather, eyes on him. All eyes on him. He leaned over, kissed her slowly, then wrapped his hand around her throat and felt her gasp once before he closed her trachea in his fist. She struggled in the seat trying to breathe through a broken heart. Then he proceeded to tear her apart.
His hands wielded around her, sinking into the flesh, ripping through the blood and sinew and tissue, owning every piece of her being. He felt the joint in her arm rip lose and study the red pigment on his hands. He tore at her ribcage, teeth, hands, muscles all the same. He saw her eyes, fixed on him, those damaged eyes frozen in understanding. Somehow though, he knew she didn't understand it. At all. Maybe she thought he was killing her as a gift, maybe in punishment or maybe for the shear sociopathic joy of it. The hunt, the woe, the kill. The mangled corpse, with its limbs a Picasso painting, adorned the seat as he drove. Home. And there he truly destroyed her body.
When the parents worried, thought she was gone, people learned and naturally brought food. He showed up, the lost and delirious with depression boyfriend, bearing the gift of a meat pie. Before the cops had even learned her name, she was already digesting in her family's stomachs.