When the blood gushes from her throat, it makes a glub glub sound like I’m pouring a gallon of spoiled milk down the drain. I smile as she crumbles, her knees folding, her body spasming in the dirt. In the sunset glow, I watch the light leave her eyes. It isn’t how they make it look in the movies. Scorsese and Cameron think eyes are glossy wet marbles one second and dull pits the next, but I know better now. It’s as if the pupils, icy blue like a husky’s, just slipped a shade on the color wheel into a cloudy turquoise.
“Huh,” I say. It’s fascinating to watch. I could observe the processes forever, first the blood drying, then the bugs chewing through her skin, until finally there’s nothing left but torn clothes and bones. But, it’s getting late, so I grab her ankles and start to drag her along the trail. The leg holes of her pink shorts fill with dirt and her cropped t-shirt rolls up to her neck revealing the grey sports bra. At one point, one of her size six Sketchers pops off. I don’t bother picking it up. By the time someone finds it, we’ll be a long ways away.
She would fit in the trunk, but I don’t want to waste the time spent with her. Instead, I buckle her into the back seat like she’s a celebrity and I’m her chauffeur. When I get behind the wheel, I adjust my rearview mirror so I can see her clearly. Her head lolls to the side as I drive, her mangled neck no longer able to support the weight. That’s okay, I don’t mind. She still looks pretty, so much so that I find myself getting nervous. I feel like I should give her an indication of what’s happening.
“We’re almost home,” I say. “I promise you’re going to love it.”
A minivan pulls up to the red-light beside us. I wave at the boy in the back seat. When the light turns green, it speeds away, but I take my time. Dr. Ragner always says to savor the little things.
When we pull into the neighborhood, I’m feeling antsy. She’s not looking at me anymore. Her head has fallen forward and dangles above her lap like a piñata on a string. Still, I realize she needs to understand what’s going to happen next.
“I’m not quite sure how to say this.” As we drive up the bumpy driveway, her body bounces and fresh blood squirts onto the seat. “But I’ve watched you for a long time. You’re always out there at the same time I am every night.” We roll to a stop in front of the house and I press the button on the garage door opener. “You’ve probably never noticed me, but I don’t blame you.” The white door rolls up and I pull into the bay. “I have a pretty small presence. Sometimes I think I’m actually invisible.” The garage door rumbles back down the track. When it reaches the ground, we’re bathed in a dim grey light.
I can barely see her now and I feel more confident. “But I’m a really nice guy. I make a good living and I know how to cook. I stay in shape and I read lots of books. Sometimes I even accidentally rhyme.” I laugh and run my hand over the scar on my scalp.
“Everything was okay until I woke up one morning and I had a really bad headache. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t work, couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even go hiking. I bet you would hate that.” I glance in the rearview mirror and see her slumped silhouette. “When I went to the doctor, he told me I had a brain tumor. Inoperable. Isn’t that the pits?” I laugh. “I freaked out at first, quit my job, hid away in my room. I took medicine so the headaches went away, but I can feel myself slipping. It’s like something inside my head is eating who I am one little bite at a time.” I think about the bad days, crying in bed alone, and shudder. “I was never very religious, but I started doing all this research on the afterlife. I found this article that said the afterlife is where your soul exists forever and you get to spend it with the people you’ve wed your life to. That sounded pretty great, and when I stopped reading, I thought of you.” I smile into the rearview. “So yeah, that’s why you’re here.”
I get out of the car, open the door, and drag her upstairs to the bedroom where I’ve laid out the dress. She’s all dirty from the trip, so I wipe her face, her hands, and her stomach, then I take off her clothes. I keep my eyes closed because it seems inappropriate. Once she’s naked, I slip the dress on her body and it fits just like how I imagined it would.
“You look so beautiful,” I say. There are tears in my eyes.
I slip the rings on our fingers and tell Alexa to play Friday I’m in Love.
“You were playing this song on the trail once. I hope it’s your favorite.”
I take her by the hands and spin her around the room. When the song ends, I plant a long kiss on her lips. Her head bends back and I have to double over, but it still tastes so sweet. Afterwards, I slip the dress off her shoulders, and carry her to bed.
After we’re done making love and I’ve tucked her beneath the sheets, I give her one last kiss and say, “I’ll see you in the afterlife, sweetheart.”
Then, I take the pistol from the bedside table, stick it between my lips, and pull the trigger.
Andrew has been writing and publishing short stories for the past decade. They have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Penumbric and on the No Sleep Podcast. His fantasy novella, Children of the Arc, was published in 2023 by TWB Press. He currently lives in Arizona, working as a middle school English teacher, and mediating heated debates between his roommates, a Maine Coon cat and the world’s most rambunctious husky.
Published 2/14/24