28. Him
HIM
THE DRAIN
The dirt is softer near the water. Damp. Easy to move with each thrust of the shovel. It gives beneath me, as if it’s eager for the gift it’s about to receive.
I lost track of how long I’ve been digging. The moon hangs low now, shards of light casting a silver sheen over her pale body, curled on a bed of twigs and dried leaves.
I drop to my haunches beside her and the shallow hole I’ve carved, wiping a sheen of sweat from my brow. I reach out and brush her dark hair away from her face. Her skin is still warm, reminding me of how sweet she tasted. How beautiful her screams were.
“You were almost perfect,” I murmur, voice soft enough to blend with the rustle of leaves. “So close to her.”
A trail of mud follows my fingertips as I run them along her jaw. “You were almost enough.”
My monster stirs again, but he’s no longer frantic. The rage that gnawed at my insides has dimmed to a hum—a satisfied purr. We took what we needed.
I lift her body and ease her into the grave. There’s no box for her, not like the others. The earth settles, curving around her like a cradle. Her head tilts slightly to the side, lips parted as if she were asleep.
A pang of disappointment coils in my gut. We would have preferred she suffered: to know that she screamed and cried. To know she attempted to claw her way out of the grave I so painstakingly dug for her.
But time is of the essence. And the message she carries… Well, that’s more important.
With a few handfuls of dirt, I begin covering her. The soil—soft like powder—scatters across her body, clinging to her lashes, her collarbone, filling the hollow beneath her chin.
I pause and peel off my gloves, replacing the mud-covered vinyl for a fresh pair.
The Polaroid camera waits on the portable table beside the box of gloves and the rest of my tools—set up out of habit, though I didn’t need them tonight.
Picking up the camera, I snap two pictures of my latest conquest, lying deathly still in her earthly bed—one for us to remember her by, and one for our message.
I stare down at the photos, then slip them into my suit pocket and resume shoveling.
The hole isn’t deep, but it doesn’t need to be.
When I finish, I place a few fallen leaves over the disturbed ground. Not too much. Just enough to keep her hidden until I’m ready for her to be found.
I lift the camera once more and take one final shot— this time of the grave, framed by the still water, marking its location.
This task is complete.
But I’m not done.
Not yet.