My library clothes are very conservative. They cover what I keep buried. I even wear those cliché librarian glasses. I pull my hair back. I don’t like high heels. That’s how I like to dress. It used to make my grandmother so angry.
“You’re such a pretty girl. Why do you hide under all those clothes?”
Because I like to hide, grandmother. There are ugly things within me that no one should ever see.
“Fix your hair. Put on some makeup.”
I didn’t always dress that way. When I met my ex-husband, I dressed to show my body more. But even then, I never dressed the way I do now, when I go out at night.
Despite all my hiding, I do like to go out some nights. I never know when I’ll be in the mood. Most of the time, I am content to stay among the dead. Among the whispering ghosts and the cold, crumbling stone. Other nights, I can’t take the silence. The loneliness. Thoughts of Sam drive me into the night.
I wear all black. Short, short skirts. Fishnet stockings. Knee-high boots. Lace shirts or other see-through things.
I put on makeup.
I use liquid eyeliner to trace thick, black lines around my eyes. I spread blush over my cheeks. I paint my mouth a shiny, cherry red. My grandmother used to say that girls who wear red on their lips are trying to make boys think of other body parts. I’m okay with that.
I live within walking distance of the train, so I head there and get on the next train out. My money is tucked into my red lace bra.
The train ride is short. Some men look at me. I look back. I’m not shy in this outfit. I’m a different person. Another Ainsley. An Ainsley that not even Sam would recognize. Portia might have fainted.
At my stop, I get off the train and head to the nearest nightclub. I pay my cover charge. A loud band is playing awful music. I hate it. But this is where I need to be right now.
It doesn’t take long. I have my drink in hand and am shimmying along with the music when a young man approaches me. I can already tell he is an arrogant one.
Perfect.
“Hey, gorgeous. Want to dance?”
“Sure.”
We move our bodies together for a while. His name is Paul. He just started a job in the area. He lives in a nearby apartment with a roommate. Paul brags that he comes from money. That his job is amazing. That he is going to buy a Porsche once he makes his first million, which he expects to do by thirty.
Paul is over ten years younger than I am, but he either doesn’t know or doesn’t care. I have a feeling he doesn’t notice much about anyone but himself. Paul is starting to remind me of my ex-husband. The Blacksmith has told me to feed my anger. Let it take over. Give in to this hate. This rage.
Tonight is working out perfectly.
I touch Paul a lot. I touch his arm. I touch his knee. I laugh at all of his jokes. The next song comes on, and Paul stays seated in a barstool. I turn my back to him and dance between his legs, moving my body against his. His hands are on my hips. When I can’t see him, I pretend his hands are Sam’s.
Most of the time when I pick guys up, I pretend they are Sam.
Sometimes, if they are really rough, I imagine that my Blacksmith has taken over their bodies with his spirit. I look deeply into their eyes and I see him there. He is strong and protective. He possesses me. He owns me. He has branded me.
Then I do something for him—my Blacksmith.
Paul leans into my ear.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
He takes my hand and leads me through the crowded bar and out the front door.
“How did you get here?”
“I took the train. I don’t live that far from here by car. And I live alone…”
“Sweet, let’s go.”
I look at Paul as we drive. He is relatively handsome. Not my type. Too fair, too blond. Too Fairfield County: arrogant, entitled asshole. He has the look of an aristocrat, condescending to consort with a lucky, chosen peasant. It would never occur to Paul that I could be anything but thrilled by his attentions. He thinks he chose me.
Actually, I chose him.
“Have you ever been in love, Paul?”
“Have I? Uh. I don’t know. I guess so.”
“You would know if you had been in love.”
“How about you?”
“My heart doesn’t work properly anymore.”
He looks at me, as if for the first time. But he is too horny to turn back now.
I direct Paul up my driveway. The road is dark and bumpy.
“Shit, you live up here by yourself? Aren’t you scared?”
I have my protector in the backyard. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“I’m used to it. I’ve lived here all my life.” I pause. “Why? Are you?” I smile.
He laughs, a little nervously.
We stop on the patio, and I tell him to wait outside in the summer evening.
I grab two bottles of beer and come back outside.
“Let’s go up to the backyard. I want to show you something.”
“Up there?” He hesitantly gestures into the darkness.
I kiss him then, tongue first, hard. His hands grab my ass tightly. I pull away.
“Don’t you want to see what I have to show you? Come on. We’ll play hide and seek.” I run into the dark.
Paul runs after me, laughing. “Hey, wait!”
I run to my graveyard garden. I light the candles and wait on the bench.
Paul finds me quickly, following the flickering light.
“Oh…spooky. Are you one of those Goth chicks? I should have known by the way you were dressed. Still, this is,” he gestures to my graveyard, “pretty cool.”
He sits next to me, and I give him a beer.
I drink mine fast.
I rise and move to stand over my Blacksmith’s grave. I open the buttons of my lace shirt. I unzip my skirt and kick it off. I stand in the candlelight, wearing just my red lace bra and panties, with my garters holding up my fishnets and my boots. It is quite the presentation, or so I’ve been told.
Paul puts his beer down. He stands and walks over to me.
“Wow.” He kisses me like I kissed him earlier. No love. All tongue.
His hands move all over my body, pulling my bra down, pulling off my panties.
“You’re not going to sacrifice me or anything, are you? Because if so, I’m not a virgin.” He laughs.
I just smile at him.
I pull him to the ground. His head rests beside a headstone. I pull at his clothes until he is naked and climb on top of him. When he is deep inside me, his eyes close, and his head sinks back.
Then I slit his throat. His eyes open wide in shock for a second, but it’s over very soon. I’ve become so skilled. Naked, I work in the candlelight, cutting Paul into pieces. I am covered in his blood. It warms me on the outside. I lick my fingers and feel his life warm me on the inside. Finally, I find his heart.
Eating a human heart is harder than you think. It is a muscle, strong and tough. I eat what I can. Enough to fill me with life and heat. I lick the blood off my fingers. I wonder what my own heart would taste like, all bitter and dead. Probably not a fit meal for anyone.
I get my shovel. I roll my wheelbarrow over to what remains of Paul.
I must look quite a sight in my fishnets and boots, covered in blood, rolling a wheelbarrow across the yard in the moonlight.
I roll pieces of his body to the area behind the graveyard, where I have planted patches of flowers over previously disturbed areas of earth. It looks so pretty. There are hydrangeas and even a lilac tree. I am hoping to put in more black-eyed Susans and daisies. Maybe a sunflower or two. They look cheerful.
I start to dig. My arms are used to burying things. But then again, so is my head.
When I’m finished, I’m sticky and dirty and exhausted. I grab Paul’s warm beer and sit with my Blacksmith, telling him about my evening. He smiles and fires up the coals.
My anger feeds his fire. My blood feeds his need for me. I’m getting closer. He knows that.
I sleep.