Heat Death

Summer was your favorite season; I said it was mine, too.

Dusk didn’t bring the brisk coolness of night, even as the breeze had kicked up dust fruitlessly towards the Sun, whose shades were dimming and growing heavy with the weight of the dwindling day.

Our smiles stood high, the corners curving upwards like sharp billhooks ready to strike. I took you by the hand, staring into your eyes. I saw my reflection in your glasses, and it made me want to breathe deep. With a big breath of that sickly, jarring evening air, I was certain nothing had disgusted me more than that very moment. But you didn’t know that. You were convinced we had some fucked up semblance of relationship or friendship or something. Anything just to make you think that you had someone in your life, and anything to save to from the wretched loneliness that the rest of society subject you to. The way that we’d play with their bodies together every time it was over had you convinced that I loved you. You thought you had some kind of immunity, but really, I grew so sick of you over time that I’d purge onto your sleeping body. Brown, slimy clumps of that night’s romantic steak dinner would drip down your face and you’d just laugh. I would stare blankly, like I mostly do. Forgive me for my smiles, and for everything I was about to put you through.

There’s something cute about the way that you confided in me with all of your trust and sincerity. You were drawn to me like a fly to fresh dog shit in the stagnant August heat. We’d often go to the beach on the day you wanted to kill. God, you were so comfortable. Staring at me behind your flushed, amber eyes and scratched-up Ray-bans, your delusions were so dark and misguided. I used to be lonely, too. But as you’d gnash tuna sandwiches with you mouth agape and tell me your ideas for cutting someone apart, my blood ran icy. I would only stare back blankly and think of how alone in this world we really were. It was just the two of us, but you managed to make me feel crowded anyways. I remember how beautiful your scarred and sunburned body was, in spite of its imperfections. I was not infatuated; your flaws were so horribly apparent there was no time for the curse of infatuation. That’s not to say that I didn’t love you back at some point, but your cradle of love was so decrepit and threadbare that it was only a matter of time before it fell through.

That night was a night that I had long prepared for. The last belligerent flecks of day faded away, and I found you nestled into that apathetic corpse. You had slit his throat; you loved to bathe in the fleeting heat that poured from their bodies. You loved to watch their desperate attempts of grasping for life as they would put their hands to their throat, the blood seeping through the cracks in their fingers like water filling a sinking ship. You’d lick your lips and softly run your fingers through bloodied clumps of hair and lean quietly into their ears, giving them soporific whispers of reassurance. Soon, their breathing slowed and came to redundant gurgles and death rattles. Silence always followed, as though your voice had soothed them. But I knew otherwise; your voice was jarring and shrill, even in the most delicate of whispers. I always told you it was lovely.

I grasped the cadaver’s hand. He was a Libra, like me, or so his license said. Maybe we would have been friends. I made a fire with the money in his wallet. This wasn’t a robbery, except of my own emotions. I had lost all feeling. In every sense besides my beating heart, I was as lifeless as he. You ripped open his chest cavity and covered yourself in entrails. Every organ was a plaything, just as I had been. Your laughter was broken, staccato, and deafening. In that moment, I was not livid. I did not seethe, grit my teeth, or do anything else to signify to you that you were the most annoying and disruptive creature to ever stand on two legs. It was impossible; I no longer possessed the ability to hate.

My “playing” of your toys had always been subtle touches and affection. It was adorable to you, the fact that you didn’t like to share. I seldom had the urge to kill, let alone dismember a corpse. You were sawing through his legs as I told you to stop. You looked at me, and I looked back with the biggest smile I had ever made in my entire life. Perhaps it was a bit disconcerting, as I wasn’t one to smile. My expressions were generally emotionless. You smiled, but struggled to keep eye contact. Oh, how easy it was to expose that you were pathetically weak to me. How easily I took the bone saw right from your hands and pressed it to your throat, grabbing your greasy, filthy, terrible excuse for hair and pinning you to the ground, your eyes wide and mine even wider. You screamed the most beautiful sound you have ever uttered. It was so good that you picked this place specifically for how remote it was. You told me a scream would never be heard; a body would never be found. You’re so fucking stupid. That’s what I found to be adorable. You really trusted me and locked yourself in walls of false security that were slowly closing in on you. Now those walls were crushing your body, with bones dismantling and tendons tearing away.

Your screaming turned to pleading as the saw laid against your throat. You knew that I was stronger, that you would not be able to overpower me with your greatest effort. You were helpless, but I was not happy. Happiness is an emotion that is felt through entertainment or the success of a goal, but this was neither. It was cold and emotionless, like I had been to you. That was never a red flag, I guess. You were pretty fucked in the head, too. But you had emotions, having drained mine away. I would never get them back. I could only feel subtle tinges of bitter contempt as I slowly sawed through your throat, watching as blood pooled onto your white skin and spread like fire to paper. The saw burned through your neck, and I eventually heard the same gurgling and death rattles. I gave no whisper, feeling that you probably had thought something to yourself about it almost being over or whatever. I stood up once you no longer made noise. I didn’t want to touch you. Even in this moment you made me feel disinterested and lethargic.

Summer is a disgusting season, but you don't deserve something you liked so much. I cut you up that night and put your remains in our freezer, which I planned on disposing of. One last time, I subjected you to my frigid gaze before closing the door shut.