Chapter Thirty-One
Arts and Crafts
I can’t move.
Not because Mastyx is punishing me for my lust toward another man, but because I collapsed in bed when I came home from the hospital on my stomach, and my neck was propped awkwardly on my pillow, rendering everything from the neck down useless until I can un-contort my head from this painful, distorted position.
I take my hand and move it to my face, where I push my head back in alignment with my spine and press my hands into the mattress, forcing myself onto my hands and knees, my body groaning with every muscle I flex.
I sit on all fours, like I’m waiting to get railed from behind and rock my body to and fro, loosening my tight and uncooperative muscles.
Jesus. I’m a mess, I think as I slide a foot off the mattress and onto the floor.
Surprisingly, my legs cooperate and let me stand without failing.
I stagger to the kitchen, take a couple more Percocet and two Tylenol, wash them down with a half-drunk bottle of water I left on my butcher block counters, and wander to the pantry.
The beetles make occasional noises, but for the most part, they eat their feast in the quiet solace of their dark totes.
I yank the chain dangling above me, kneel slowly to the floor, and peek inside my beetle colonies’ habitat, one, and then the other.
The bones are nearly picked clean. It won’t be long now.
I close the lids to the beetles’ house and meander to the kitchen.
I yank the fridge door open, gazing inside—orange cream wine coolers and milk.
Well, milk doesn’t sound as good as a wine cooler at the moment, so I grab a cold cooler and head to my office, where the six-foot table that sits across from my office desk waits for me to plant my ass on the stool and start building my creations.
The stool creaks as I sit carefully and twist toward my four-drawer plastic tower, pulling out a few cedar planks from one drawer, glue from the next, and dirt from the bottom.
I spread out an array of moss and small plants that have been propagating in water onto the tabletop and select a small black nursery pot.
In my mind, I envision how I want this piece of wall art to look.
The centerpiece will be the Reaper’s jaw, with the plastic pot resting on its side, a variegated string-of-hearts plant pouring from its center.
Around the jaw, an array of dried flowers and bright green moss that have been treated with glycerin for preservation.
I’ll leave the edges clean, so the cedar acts as a frame around it.
Originally, I planned to do a candle, but decided against it. Plants look more pleasing to the eye.
I pick up my ruler and pencil and draw straight lines one inch inside the perimeter on all four sides.
These lines will be the edge of the moss once it’s time to place it carefully.
I still have to clean the bones I’m using with hydrogen peroxide and water to make them nice and white, which takes about twenty-four hours, but I have time.
I always take extra time off for the annual Oddities Market in Downtown.
It always falls on the first Sunday after Halloween, which is convenient for disposing of body parts.
No one bats an eye at the bones in my art.
Other people use animals, and I create a few pieces with those as well, but now I prefer to work with human bones.
After measuring the bottom of the plastic nursery pot, I pick up my hole saw and install the bit that’s slightly larger than the hole I need.
This will allow the pot to sit partially inside the hole.
Because a string of hearts doesn’t need to be watered too often, the buyer must take the art piece down every one to two weeks in the summer or every three to four weeks in the winter and thoroughly water the little pot over the sink.
Once it stops dripping, they hang it back on the wall in their house, which receives direct sunlight for part of the day.
The variegated string of hearts features dashes of pink and purple, along with white and green, making it an excellent centerpiece for the dried baby’s breath and the scattered pink and purple pansies.
Now that the square cedar plank is adequately prepared, I move on to the round piece of cedar.
This one is a foot in diameter and will make the perfect centerpiece for a table.
I take a nine-inch-high, four-inch-round vase and gently place it in the middle.
The sizing is ideal, leaving a four-inch work space around the perimeter of the glass.
I grab my clear epoxy Gorilla Glue, lift the vase from the center of the plank, squeeze the goop in a spiral pattern from the center, radiating outward, and quickly press the vase into the plank.
Now I’ll let that sit for twenty-four hours to ensure the vase is thoroughly attached before I start adding dried flowers to the perimeter.
The Reaper’s hand bones will be wrapped neatly around the glass vase, and once it’s ready, I can fill it with spring water and plop in the peace lily plant that has been sitting in water.
Two days and several energy drinks later, I have several large and small pieces pre-made, ready when the bones are ready to be mounted.
I grab my brown price tags by their jute strings and lay them out before me.
The cost of purchasing real human bones is exponential, so my prices are high, too high for some people’s wallets, but I have a few loyal clients who are always looking for unique items they find worth the cost. The human hand vase will be priced the highest, and the jawbone piece will be mid-range.
Everything I carry under $100 is made of animal bones only.
Occasionally, I’ll create a special piece using small pieces of human vertebrae, but it’s rare.
My phone vibrates on my desk. I rotate away from my workstation and roll over to view the screen.
Unknown number.
I don’t answer those, so that little mystery will go unsolved.
I roll back to my workstation and begin the task of cleaning up my workspace.
Once I remove the bones from the beetle colony, I’ll place them in the hydrogen peroxide bath I’ve prepared and let them sit overnight to whiten them.
Then I’ll submerge them in a sink filled with warm water and Dawn dish soap to remove the peroxide smell.
Once they dry, I can glue all the human parts onto their pre-made planks and pack the pieces neatly in boxes to take them to the market.
My phone vibrates again. I stand from my chair, remove my rubber gloves and gaze at the screen.
Private number.
Still not answering. Bill collectors will try anything to get you to answer the phone.
The doorbell rings as I step out of the room to empty my trash in the kitchen.
I freeze in place and turn my head slowly to the Felix the Cat clock ticking loudly on the wall, his tail and eyes swinging back and forth.
It’s seven in the evening. Not too late for visitors, but later than my parents would arrive if they dropped in unannounced.
I walk back into the office and peer at the computer screen.
Staring up at the camera on the front porch are the bright blue eyes of Dr. Z.
He’s wearing gray jogging bottoms and a University of South Carolina t-shirt.
He looks away from the camera and rests his hands on his hips, twisting his waist back and forth as if he's stretching his lower back muscles.
His cock stands out like a sore thumb from his gray sweats, making it difficult not to notice its size.
He rings the doorbell again. A part of me wants to answer, and another part of me is afraid.
But why is he here? Did I forget something at the hospital?
I glance down at my attire. I’ve been wearing the same Courage the Cowardly Dog shirt for two days and haven’t showered either. There are even Cheeto crumbs on my pink shorts. Once I get in the zone, everything, including hygiene, tends to take a backseat.
I take my hands, quickly swipe the orange specks off my shorts and amble toward the front door.
In my head, all I can think is don’t fucking knock, don’t fucking knock.
It’s my only rule, and if he breaks it and I don’t follow through with his sacrifice, Mastyx will know I feel something for this man I barely know.
The minute my bare foot slaps the floor in the living room, the flames of the fireplace grow high and hot, making me stop dead.
My core trembles relentlessly. I take a step back from the front door, and the flames die down to barely a visible flame where they once were.
The pulse in my neck pounds as the doorbell chimes again and the faint voice of Dr. Z. calls out, “Miss Salavatori?”
I can’t move; fear keeps me from taking another step, but I have to. I have to save him. The flame in the fire rises and lowers rhythmically as if being fueled by Mastyx’s breathing.
My head snaps in the direction of the office as my phone vibrates off the desk and bounces noisily onto the floor. It has to be Dr. Z.
The flames of the fire burn lower and lower, indicating Mastyx may be retreating to the Earth’s core, where hell awaits.
I straighten my t-shirt, take a deep breath, and take two quick steps toward the door.
The flames of the fire grow high, and this time, a hot, flaming tongue lashes out of the fire and singes the floor inches from my black-painted toes.
I curl my toes under as the tongue slowly recedes behind the fireplace flames.
Mastyx can’t come into the human world without being summoned by me, but he can use fire to send me a message, one that again I just received loud and clear.
I step slowly away from the charred mark on my hardwood floors where his tongue scorched the wood.
The doorbell rings again.