14. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Julianna
W e carry him at dawn, after a night of wrapping him up, sealing him and bleaching. I’m covered in old blood, but we keep going, only stopping to have a short nap before the sun started peeking through the windows.
The woods are so quiet our breathing is the only noise.
Not even the birds are up to their annoying nonsense.
Everything is wet from the storm, pine needles slick underfoot.
It's just us and the body, wrapped neat in a plastic sheeting burrito, cinched with lines of silver tape at the neck, ankles, and midsection.
Creed did the honors, pulling the tape so tight you could see the contours of the mouth beneath. He likes to keep his work tidy.
I appreciate that about him.
We don't talk. There's nothing left to say. Our hands are smeared with old blood, now gone black in the mountain air. I keep looking down at mine, half-expecting to find gloves, but it’s just skin, streaked and sticky, the edges of my nails packed with the color of rust. Creed’s blood is fresher, dotting his knuckles, a constellational spatter.
War wound from the scissors. I think about licking it clean, but I don’t. Later, maybe.
It’s a two-person job, this kind of thing.
Dead weight isn’t a metaphor. Creed walks backwards, hauling the shoulders, his boots leaving twin gouges in the mud.
I take the feet, arms extended to keep the soles from whacking my thighs.
The body drags heavy, but not unmanageable.
It’s a rhythm, like moving a sofa or a very stubborn patient.
With every bounce over a root or rock, the thing inside shifts, liquids resettling, gases realigning, the soft percussion of what’s left knocking against bone.
I wonder if the doctor’s brain is sloshing, or if it’s all just a myth, something we tell ourselves so the weight feels less.
I think about how easy it would be to break a skull open right now. Just drop and stomp.
Maybe in another life I would have been a mortician.
At the edge, the world opens up. The cliff is at least a hundred feet, sheer and clean, crowned by lichen and moss that’s brighter than it should be.
The sunrise is just getting its shit together on the horizon.
Red then orange then a blue so pale it feels like a warning.
The mist is thick in the valley, crawling up the rocks in slow-motion, like some terrifying thing trying to climb back to the sky.
I breathe in, filling my chest until the air hurts.
Creed doesn’t bother; he just shifts his grip and waits for me to catch up.
We heave in tandem. Creed hoists the plastic-wrapped torso upright, bracing the weight on his hip.
I grab the legs, the left one stuck bent slightly weird at the knee, tape creaking.
For a second, the doctor is standing, the world’s worst ventriloquist dummy, head lolling to one side, mouth open in silent protest. Creed tilts him forward, and together we tip the corpse until gravity takes over.
It doesn’t fall. Not at first. It rolls, slow and deliberate, like it’s working through the stages of denial.
The first bounce is nothing, just a shiver as the body clears the ledge.
The second is pure slapstick: the plastic catches on a branch and the whole package spins, slamming shoulder-first into a rock outcrop with a noise like someone breaking a watermelon.
I want to laugh, but it would spoil the moment.
The third bounce is what does it. The tape at the midsection bursts, a small starburst of red mist, and what’s inside, liver, spleen, lower intestines, goes out in a wave, painting the rocks and sliding down in long, sticky arcs.
The body keeps going, less human with every revolution, until it vanishes into the fog.
There’s a final sound, a hollow thump, and then nothing.
The water absorbs it all, no echo, no return.
We stand there for a minute, looking down at the mess we made. My heart is pounding, but it’s not panic. It’s just energy, clean and bright, like after a sprint. Creed wipes his hands on his jeans, then glances over at me. His eyes are so dark they look empty.
I expect him to say something, a joke or a critique, but he just nods once, and that’s it. The work is done.
On the way back, we move slower. There’s a weird peace in it, like after the last code blue of the night shift, when the adrenaline drains and you remember you’re hungry or tired or both.
My hands shake, not from fear but from cold.
Creed leads, his stride long and unhurried.
He doesn’t look back, but I know he’s listening, cataloging the sound of every footfall, every broken branch. If I tripped or ran, he’d hear it.
At the door, he stops, holding it open for me.
I step inside, the warmth hitting like a slap.
The stink of bleach from last night is gone, replaced by the neutral hum of coffee and bread and woodsmoke.
I pull my arms into my shirt, hugging myself to stop the shivers.
Creed brushes past me, heading for the kitchen.
He moves with the confidence of a man who has never doubted a single choice in his life. Maybe he hasn’t.
I go to the sink, scrub my hands under water so hot it almost burns, watch the brown-red swirl down the drain.
There’s a bar of soap, nearly worn through, and I use it until it crumbles.
When I look up, Creed is behind me, a towel in his hand.
He wipes my face, gentle, like he’s cleaning a child after dinner. I lean into the touch.
He presses his mouth to my ear, just once, then pulls back.
“Good work,” he says.
It’s not praise. It’s confirmation.
We are a team now.
Partners.
The sun is higher when I go to the bedroom, turning the frost outside the window into a million sharp needles.
I strip off my clothes, pile them in the corner.
My skin is clean for the most part, but more bruises are starting to bloom: a map of thumbprints across my hips, a red streak on my thigh where Creed fucked me into the wall, the dead resident staring with unseeing eyes.
I press a finger into the mark, feeling for pain, but there’s only heat. Only proof that I was here.
Showering quickly, I towel off and head back into the room.
I pull on a new shirt, black, Creed’s. It smells like detergent and him.
Grabbing my jeans, I pull those on. I tie my hair up, tight, and study my face in the bathroom mirror.
I look nothing like myself. My eyes are darker, my mouth a deeper pink.
A flush sits high on my cheekbones and my eyes are a sharp blue. Clear. I look exactly like what I am.
Monster.
The word doesn’t sting like it should.
If anything, it fits. I finally feel…
Beautiful.
Whole.
I go back to the kitchen. Creed is at the table, pouring coffee into a pair of mugs. He slides one across the wood to me. I take it, fingers trembling just enough to make the rim clink against the table.
He watches me, his eyes never moving from my face.
He says, “You ready to start your life with me, Julianna.”
I nod. “I like the quiet.”
He smiles. There’s nothing warm in it, but it’s not cruel, either.
I take a sip, scalding hot. It burns, but I don’t care. I drink it down anyway.
The cabin is still. There’s no threat, no emergency, no white coats or blue lights coming to interrupt us.
Just peace.
Just this.
I think I could get used to it.
He cooks while I clean up after him. His movements are so precise it’s fascinating to watch: eggs cracked with one hand, yolks slid into a glass bowl and whisked so hard the color goes lemon-yellow.
He shaves curls of butter into the pan, watching them melt, and then tilts the skillet to coat every inch.
He scrapes the eggs in, folding them with a wooden spatula, and the smell is so good it makes my stomach growl.
He seasons with black pepper and salt, nothing fancy, then plates it all with a precision I respect.
“Table,” he says, and I do it. Plates, forks, mugs, the fake linen napkins from the drawer. I fold them neatly, two precise rectangles. There is something ceremonial about it. Even now.
We sit, opposite each other, knees brushing under the small space. The window faces east, sunlight pouring in over the table, turning the eggs into gold.
He takes a bite, chews, swallows. Watches me. I match him, the taste hitting my tongue sharp and perfect. The eggs are good. I want to tell him, but words feel irrelevant.
We eat in silence. Each chew and swallow is a truce, an agreement that we are now a thing . My stomach is a cave, hollowed by adrenaline and now slowly filling. I shovel eggs, not caring how I look, aware that every movement is being watched and measured.
His gaze is heavy on me. Not hungry, not exactly.
More like he’s appreciating me: jawline, the dip of my throat, the tendons that pull when I swallow.
His hand stays on the table for a while, palm flat, thumb tracing invisible circles.
Then, slow and inevitable, it drops to his thigh, then under the table.
I know what’s coming. I keep my eyes on my plate.
He touches me. At first, it’s just the pressure of his hand against my knee, warm through the denim. Then his fingers spread, sliding up, kneading the muscle. It’s possessive, but not urgent.
I exhale, feeling the tension unspool. I want to resist, to keep the game going, but I’m so fucking tired. Instead, I let him, relaxing my leg so he can press deeper, thumb working slow circles into the space just above the kneecap. I feel the pulse there, wild but steadying.