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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.

Chapter 4
     
    Today, I stay at home and clean.
    I shower for almost an hour after waking
up in the graveyard.
    I always do after a night like that.
    Sam tries to call me, but I can’t talk
to him. I feel that familiar mix of shame and satisfaction that no one would
ever understand. Not even Sam.
    I mop the kitchen floor three times. I
scrub the bathtub until my fingers are raw. I strip the bed. I do all the
laundry. I nap for a while. After my nap, I take Paul’s car back to the bar
parking lot.
    Paul’s car is fast. Too fast. I enjoy
the ride. After being certain I have left nothing of myself behind, I take the
train back home again, an entirely different Ainsley now.
    After dinner, I put on Night of the
Living Dead . It is one of my favorite horror movies of all time. I can
relate to the monsters. I sympathize with their hunger. Their lives are so
simple. No matter what the obstacle, they lurch forward, seeking to fill their
emptiness. Their loved ones look at them as strangers. They move in packs, but
each has a lonely existence.
    I think about Sam. In some ways, the
zombies’ hunger reminds me of how I feel about him. All they want are brains.
They are fixated on them. All they say is “Brains, brains, brains.” They’ll do
anything for brains.
    I love Sam the way a zombie loves
brains.
    Horror movies are therapeutic for me. I
feel healed and renewed after watching them. Fear is so pure. I love to be
afraid. It is