Relationship
Status
By Greta
T. Bates
“Dear Diary…”
No, that’s not right—this sure as
shit wasn’t my 9th grade Hello Kitty diary.
“Log:
day 23.”
Better.
I’d
followed her home from work again, tracing her steps, noticing her habits, from work and
now on the train headed home. A friend of mine once said women’s relationships were
confusing—sometimes you didn’t know whether you wanted to be with her or be
her.
Lucky 23,
the day we would meet. I fondled the knife in my purse, ran my hand along the spine, as
I stared at her long, shiny chestnut locks cascading down her back, skimming her waist,
just a peep of skin exposed below her shirt edge—that shirt was sooo cute!
Ouch! Damn. I’d
nicked my finger on the blade. I brought
my fingertip to my mouth drawing it to my tongue. It tasted like lust…or jealousy.
I wasn’t sure…relationships with women were complicated.
The Object
Of My Desire had exited the train and I watched her make her way up the stairs to the street—her
boots, amazing. I wondered if they came in brown. Both hands clutching my purse, keeping
it tight against my body, I stuck close to her but stayed out of sight. I’d walked
this path for almost a month now and I knew where the OOMD was headed, where she lived.
She entered
the front door of her building, there was no concierge, no gate, no code—it would
be easy. I waited 15 minutes and then made my way to apartment 2D, my breath quickening
in anticipation and to be honest I was shaking a little thinking, “Kill her or
kiss her? Kill her or kiss her…”
Standing
outside her door, I inhaled deeply, one hand in a fist poised to knock, the other reaching
into my bag, grabbing my knife, my palms were sweating. The door opened suddenly—I
was frozen in place, my lips parted, holding my breath.
The OOMD
was standing there in one of those long, oversized t’s, the kind that leaves you
wondering if there’s anything underneath. She was casual, one hand leaning against
the door jamb, the other finding her hip, her t-shirt riding up a little with this action.
I exhaled,
licked my bottom lip, tugging at it slightly with my teeth.
OOMD: “Well,
you’re finally here. I’ve been watching you too, you know. I thought you’d
never get up the nerve to actually come to my door.”
I stood there,
just stood there, not blinking, not breathing. My own clothes beginning to cling to me,
damp with nervousness, and to be honest, excitement. The Object Of My Desire had turned,
walked away from me. That long t-shirt shifted, confirming my hopeful belief that yes,
there was nothing underneath.
She turned
back to me and said, “Are you coming?”
As I entered the small
foyer, all thoughts of the knife in my purse left my head. I was excited, randy, and…a
little scared.
OOMD: “Would
you like the grand tour? There’s not much to see.”
Living room,
bedroom to the right. Her closet. Ah…Xanadu…purses, and jackets, and shoes…oh
my! And shit, yes, those boots did indeed come in brown!
Still, I
said nothing, hesitant to speak to her. I hadn’t decided exactly what it was that
I wanted with this woman. I could feel my blood pumping through my veins, my heart
beating, thudding—TICK, TOCK, TICK, TOCK.
Then, we
were in the kitchen—not what I expected at all judging from the rest of the warm,
girly apartment replete with fuzzy carpet throws, overstuffed pillows, candles, and
plushies—PINK. So much PINK. It, the kitchen, was cold, clinical, dare I say, antiseptic?
It looked like that room you see in shows or movies, the one in the back of the funeral
parlor where they prep the bodies. And knives, her knives, so many flanking the wall. So…many…
The OOMD
had gone back to the entrance, and I heard her turn the dead bolt—CLICK. She came
back to the kitchen flipping the switch, blinding, fluorescent lights illuminating the
space. I shielded my eyes, adjusting. It was then I noticed a clock on the wall, heard
the hands striking. I sounded like the march of the death beetle—TICK, TOCK, TICK,
TOCK—only, I didn’t know for whom it was calling.
The OOMD started to say something, but I held
up a hand stopping her.
Me: “May
I use your restroom?” The only words I uttered.
OOMD: “Uh…sure.
Through the bedroom…I can wait.” She smiled, her grin spreading from cheek
to cheek, perfectly whitened teeth gleaming, almost glowing.
I passed
through her bedroom, glancing at her closet and fighting the urge to shop through her
things. Closing and locking the door behind me, my thoughts whirling—I felt alive!
First, I
knocked one out to quell one need, so I could focus. Then, I took my phone out, quickly
got on Facebook, and changed my status from ‘complicated’ to ‘in a relationship.’
Finally, I took out my knife, sliding it into my waist band.
Back in her
kitchen, I acquiesced, allowing her to lead me over to the spotless white countertop.
Lying down, I accepted what was to come. The OOMD tied my wrists and bound my ankles but
not before taking off my shoes and replacing them with her brown boots. Nice touch I thought.
Still smiling,
she took a variety of knives down from the wall—a chef’s knife, a paring knife,
serrated edge—and began, slicing my flesh, here and there, making incisions, my blood
slowly leaving me drop by drop. I breathed in and out through clenched teeth. The pain
was exquisite! Then, taking the largest blade, she held the tip below my chin. I knew this
was it.
I had to
act fast. She had not tied my wrists too tightly since I’d seemingly complied earlier—I’d
never know. As she began to drag her knife across my throat, I grabbed my own and
with all the power I pulled her towards me with my other arm. Just before she’d cut
all the way through, I stabbed her in the back again and again. RED. So much RED. Her smile
slipped… she looked…surprised?
We lie there, bleeding together…but…together.
I had finally answered my own questioning thoughts of, “Kill her or kiss her?”
Women’s relationships were complicated, instigated by attraction, arousal, or envy.
At least I died with my boots on…well…with her boots on.
Greta
T. Bates lives in sunny Fairhope, AL where she draws the drapes and writes in
the dark. She published Snapping, Fraying and Dangling in the Wind in
2020. Currently, she is writing short stories that explore lost love, revenge,
and facing one’s fears, told through the lens of horror. A Mills College alumna,
Greta has been published in Eternal Haunted Summer-Pagan Songs and Tales, Summer Solstice
2022 issue, with Scars Publications at scars.tv, and in Horror Scope-A Zodiac Anthology
edited by H. Everend. More work out soon!
Look
for her first novella, Wounded, to be out in 2023!
