Hi there, my name is Diane! This is a bookish blog where I'll be posting my reviews and thoughts about what I'm currently reading, as well as my all time favourite books. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!
I sat at a table, ate with a knife and fork, dabbed politely at my face with a napkin.
Now I’m coiled in the undergrowth, hidden by the brambles and the dying half-light of late evening. I’m watching a group of people – family or friends – as they eat in the peculiar way I used to.
Their cutlery clinks on china and their laughter tinkles. They are dressed well. They come from money. Their voices are honeyed and proper, and their chatter inane. A dinner party.
The word comes to me; al fresco.
This is a novelty for them, eating outside, breaking bread to herald the hotter weather.
I feast outside day and night.
One of the women pushes her plate away. Too much food, watching her figure.
In the darkness, I stifle a laugh, the choking sound a million miles away from their wind-chime tittering. I remember when I measured my own waist and tracked my calories, denying myself pleasure for the pursuit of perfection.
Now I give in to every impulse. I devour every morsel. Fat and gristle; flesh and bone. I consume everything.
They are finishing their meal now. Knives and forks and napkins are placed neatly on the plates. A man pours everyone glasses of wine they will never drink.
Out I crawl from my hiding place. The “too much” woman notices me first. A flicker of curiosity registers on her face before the horror takes over. Then the inevitable scream.
I smile at them. I enjoy trying out the gesture again but now they are all screaming. I forget my teeth are much sharper than theirs. We are alike in many ways but in the difference they find fear.
They take in my naked form and my body disgusts them. I have limbs but they are longer. A stomach which is swollen from all my good eating. Eyes which are wide so I can better see my prey. Shrivelled breasts that hang low, an inconvenience to the hunt. Hair that is kept long, a half-remembered vanity.
They are panicked, babbling now as they raise their phones, their first instinct not to run but to record. This has been a shift in the ritual through the last decade. I wonder what will come with the next generation.
Some things though will never change. I will advance and they will finally flee, but I will catch them.
The roads were dead, the night was dark and he felt the familiar thrill lacing through his body now that he had her safe in his trunk.
She was unreal, the best one yet, and it has been so easy. He flirted with her, danced with her a little, and bought her a drink he loaded with just enough rohypnol to get her in his truck without any fuss.
She wasn’t his usual type – he normally went for blondes – but something about her was magnetic. Her long black hair, pale skin, and blue eyes struck him as soon as he walked in the bar. He didn’t care for her heavy eyeliner and lower back tattoo but he let it slide. She had given him the eye and he knew he had to have her. It wasn’t any girl that could light up a dive bar. He couldn’t wait to snuff her out.
As he reached the dirt road that led to the farmhouse, he felt his erection straining his jeans. He was so close. Soon it would be a knife scraped over pale flesh, strangled screams, pleading, life in his hands. He heard a scraping in the trunk – she was waking up right on cue. He jumped out the truck and took a beat to savour the balmy night. This was his time. When the cicadas had stopped screaming and the birds had stopped chirping. There were just stars and silence. The perfect blank canvas.
Showtime he thought to himself as the sounds of her struggling grew more frantic. He popped the trunk and grinned as he took in her tear stained face, her mouth contorted in agony around a gag. She was going to be his masterpiece.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun, princess,” he said, dragging her toward the house. To his delight, she sobbed louder. “I’m going to be a real gentleman and carry you across the threshold, princess” He loved how feeble her squirms were. Now he could begin.
He flung her on the old four poster bed, the sheets had never been washed, stained by the women who came before. This was one of his favourite parts, before the blood, taking his time to tie their limbs to the posts, making them completely at his mercy.
He relished the sight of her. Gagged, tied and pleading. This is how women should always be. But he couldn’t help himself, he wanted to hear her beg.
“I’m going to take this off, princess” he said, crouching next to her, removing the gag almost reverently.
“Please” she choked and sobbed, her voice reedy with terror “i’ll do whatever you want, I won’t tell anyone, I promise, just let me go”
“You know I thought you might be different, but you bitches are all the same, begging like dogs.” He whispered. “I’m going to take my time with you, and I’m going to bleed you good.”
He turned, ready to reach for the knife on the dresser but froze, feeling a pricking down his spine.
“I don’t think so. I think I’m going to bleed you dry”
Her voice was low, steady and commanding.
“Turn around and kneel” he felt her words reverberate in his head, a crushing compulsion. Before he could even think about refusing, he was on his knees in front of the bed.
She had freed her arms and he watched her effortlessly snap the ropes binding her legs.
He couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be happening. What the fuck was she.
“Are you surprised?” She laughed, rubbing the smudged eyeliner from her tear stained face and standing tall.“You see, I’m a really good actress. “Did you honestly think a girl like me would just let a piece of shit like you buy me a drink? No, no I smelled what you are as soon as you walked into my bar, and I knew I had to have you.”
He felt his gut begin to bubble, fear lacing its way through his body.
“no, this can’t be real,” he choked.
“Oh it’s real” she said “you tried to roofie a fucking vampire. And now I’m going to tear you apart’
“No, please no, I’ll do anything” he was crying now, fat tears and snot rolling down his face.
“You beg like a bitch” she hissed “now take your clothes off’
He felt that same crushing in his skull, and then he was naked. He felt his dick shrivel with the sudden exposure.
“How many women did you kill? She asked, her voice steel.
“Please, I -”
“Tell Me” her voice a knife twisting in his head.
“Eight” he blurted.
She bared her fangs and he felt the involuntary trickle of urine down his thighs.
“I wish I could take my time with you but I’m really thirsty and I can’t stand looking at you”
“Please!” He screamed, beyond desperation.
She smiled. “This is really going to hurt”
She was on him before he could scream again. She went straight to the jugular, tearing his throat and spitting the ruined flesh on the filthy floor. He gurgled wildly and she felt the bloodlust take over. She drank deeply, revelling in his agony.
Too soon he went limp, his lifeblood drying up.
She wiped him from her lips and gave him one last look. Death always revealed their smallness. One less scumbag to worry about.
Dawn was still a ways off, she would walk home, enjoying the night, knowing nothing could hurt her.
I think about dying a lot. I have this recurring dream about my death, or rather the aftermath. The loved ones at my funeral, or more so at some dingy function hall buffet after; eating finger sandwiches and sausage rolls, chatting it up with each other while I start to decompose. Maybe they share a few stories about me, but it’s mainly about themselves – how the kids are doing or who at work is an arsehole. The moving on begins but there is no moving on for me. I become past tense.
I had the dream last night and it clings to me as I dress and make my coffee. The coffee is tasteless and I make a mental note to buy new pods when I can bring myself to go to the shops. I’m still awash with that sticky sleepy feeling, unable to get myself to wake up properly. It’s a Saturday and I have no plans. I could ring up my friends, go for brunch or get cocktails but they all have children/ partners/ dogs. Their calendars are booked weeks in advance. Mum would be happy if I came round but I can’t take her ‘constructive criticism’ when I’m already feeling off.
I don’t have a bad life. I have a steady job, nice friends and a flat that feels like home. My mum loves me, but I’m sure she wishes she had grandchildren and a son-in-law. She still hasn’t come to terms with the fact her only daughter is a child-free lesbian. My dad works overseas but he sends me regular texts and tries his best.
It’s just that for a while now I’ve felt on the periphery of my own life. It’s like everyone I love is the main character of their story but I am always a supporting character. I worry that nobody thinks of me in their spare moments.
I could wallow, stay in bed, watch reality TV until it’s time to go to sleep again but I feel an urgent pull to leave. Outside It’s an overcast, drizzly day but I barely register the rain. I feel light now that I’m outside, I don’t know where I’m going exactly but I feel the heaviness from earlier sluicing off me as I head towards town. Nobody looks at me as I walk, they have their umbrellas up and their heads down. I make an effort to look at their faces anyway. Everyone deserves to be seen.
I left my phone at home and I’m not sure of the time or how long I’ve been walking for but for once I don’t feel the pang of anxiety at being unreachable. It feels like freedom. I stop suddenly. I’m standing in front of my favourite pub, The Pale Horse Inn. I always joke to my friends it’s like something out of Lord of the Rings; a cosy place with a log-fire and comfy chairs where Hobbits wouldn’t seem out of place.
I blink and I’m inside, and for a moment I wonder if it’s my birthday. Sitting in the pub is everyone I know and love. They take up every one of the armchairs and Charlie the barman is passing around trays of sandwiches but no one notices me.
Oh. I think I know what this is.
There’s mum and she’s crying lightly but with a small, sad smile on her face and, my god, my dad is sitting with her and his hand is on hers! His eyes are misty and he’s saying:
“Our girl, she was so special”
“Do you remember when she found that poorly kitten and put it in her school bag so she could nurse him back to health, then turned out she was bloody allergic and she came out in rashes and couldn’t stop sneezing – she was so sad we wouldn’t let her keep him ” my mum sniffles.
He nods, “how could I forget, she never met a soul she didn’t want to help. I’m glad I did one good thing for this world – bringing her into it.”
“I’m glad you’re here” my mum says.
They’ve not spoke in ten years but they’re hugging now. I smile.
I walk around the room. No one sees me of course, but I can feel their emotion, their love for me is like a light pulling me forward.
My friend Chris and her wife Jill are laughing and crying.
“I’m going to miss the way she would walk in the door” Chris says.
“Hello, hello hello” Jill imitates my greeting. They really noticed me.
All around the room people I love, showing me they loved me too.
“This was her favourite pub you know – always said she felt like she was in the Shire”
“Her drink order was a vodka cranberry always served tall”
“If you started talking and everyone else was talking over you, she’d be the one to listen”
My name a chorus in the room.
I hear my Auntie Ellen say through a thick throat “a major bleed in the brain, she was asleep, they say she didn’t feel a thing.”
So that’s how it happened.
I really didn’t feel a thing. And looking around the room now all I feel is peace. It wasn’t like my dream. I was so loved.
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