I hid the contraband deep in my closet for a later time, hoping my sister would believe her gecko had escaped and was high on free will(again) and not decaying in my closet with everything else I've hoped to forget about. Then I glided out her room and swiftly closed the bathroom door as my sister walked into her room to feed Romie.

Romie who she cared about more than anyone in my family. Romie who was dead. Romie who deserved his fate.

I heard her scream and I rolled my eyes as my mom rushed up stairs, desperate for her to be okay despite my sister being cruel to her just 10 minutes ago. I walk downstairs, grabbed my backpack, told my dad in the garden I was leaving, hoping one day she would learn to love us like she loved every Romie now federalizing my dads garden.

At least the yellow hyacinths and white chrysanthemums always looked extra vibrant.

I got him. I finally got him. And now I have to make sure I don’t take the fall for cleaning up his mess. The number of people his horrible standards and instance on long hours put in the grave. The safety codes he ignored. All of it. Foreman, as he insisted upon us using the title instead of his name, was no more.

The foundry is dangerous enough, and casting bronze is a tricky business. Artists trust us with meticulously crafted molds, and his asinine disregard for the basics, like two men on every pour, and using the crane for the long ones put fatal flaws in statues and in all the miniature copies that came after them.

Sand casting and polishing versus lost wax method for the original, made work for more than a dozen craftspeople who brought the rough textured castings to the exacting standards the sculptors demanded. Details had to be attended to, and now I’ll attend to his funeral. Or should I say cremation? He wasn’t the first to trip and end up in the old fashioned melting pit.

He was about to disappear and become part of the floating scum we skim so carefully when we make alloys. No trace of a body. They might find prints from his shoes in front of the pit, and evidence of him tripping to his knees, because I’ll stage it that way. All I have to do is open the grate, and he’ll be gone.

The creaking groan of the grid sliding out from under him barely registered over the roar of flames and industrial fans. It was late, and he was the last one out as usual. His habits a rut not one of those who work here wanted to fall into. Rotating into different positions kept eyes fresh, but he said staying in the same position made it easier. Right, lazy ass. He just didn’t want to take the time to properly train anyone. Well, who’s laughing now?

My silicon soled steel-toed boots left no prints. The only thing I had to make sure of? Don’t brag. Ever. For James, Elliot and Cameron, I said a quiet prayer. Finally my co-workers will rest in peace.

The clock ticked in an almost humorous fashion, as if it, too, had witnessed the events that had just unfolded. I stood over the body, breath hitching as reality sank in: I'd killed him. Not in a fit of rage or panic, but with cold resolve. He had known too much.

The sharp glint of the knife on the floor caught my eye, a chill racing down my spine. My vision glew blurry, but I didn't have time to panic. I had to act quickly, and with trembling hands, I clutched the body with my fists tightened around his shirt, dragging it to the back of the house and into the open cellar as I'd originally planned.

I hurled the lifeless corpse into the darkness, and the air seemed to close around me, thich with secrets and regret. I took a shaky breath, preparing to burn the evidence. Fire would cleanse my hands. Erase this crime.

I struck the match with ease, but my body froze to the sound of a chilling whisper from the shadows, "Nice try..."

Tears welling up in my eyes, I looked around, but there was nobody there. My own mind was playing tricks on me, my guilty conscience punishing me for what I'd done. Without wasting any more tine, I tossed the stick at the cellar, fire erupting due to the gasoline that was pre-poured. The flames danced wildly, but as they roared to life, the room twisted.

Suddenly, the face of the man appeared in the flames, contorted in rage. "You think you can bury me?" he hissed, his eyes burning with a fierce light.

I staggered back, realizing with horror that this was my new reality. The fire was feeding on more than just the evidence, but my mind as a whole, and every fear I'd had suddenly came to truth.

In that moment, I understood: the true sin was not the murder, but the pact I'd unknowingly forged. As the flames engulfed the room, I felt the darkness seep into my soul, knowing there was no going back now.

The fire consumed everything, but as the last of the flames flickered out, a new voice echoed in my mind, smooth and seductive. “Welcome to eternity. You’ll never be alone again.”

There are lots of words for it; egocentrism, arrogance, narcissism, conceit, vainglory, etc., but in this instance we’ll call it “smugness”. Our boy is looking and feeling “smug” … a wee bit repentant, of course, but mostly smug.

Because, yet again, he had been right! Mind you it is not easy being right, not with any consistency. Being right requires not only a mind guided by good old-fashioned common sense, but also a requisite, updated knowledge of the sciences, histories, philosophies and literatures. One must put in the work to be consistently right. A blow-hard cannot pull it off, though he will try. And Constantine Goolsby had been right once again! Ha, ha! And the look on her face when his rightness was proved to her had been golden, and had made it well worth the long, wintry ride Constantine had had to suffer just to show her that he was, indeed and again, right. Ha! Constantine’s chuckle was startling enough in the quiet stillness of the snowy afternoon to jerk his exhausted horse’s head up, and to cock its sagging ears his way.

Yes. “Smug” is the word.

And the December afternoon was quiet; so very, deathly quiet. Quiet as midnight, as if the whole world was asleep, or as if Constantine himself was asleep. It was the sort of snowfall where one could tip his head back, open his mouth wide, and catch flake after flake upon the tip of his tongue without hardly trying, so Constantine childishly did just that. The flakes were coming straight down and large, accumulating deep enough on the ground now to muffle the horse’s heavy hooves. Not even his saddle creaked to break the quiet. The snow muffled it all. Everything. It was as though he was lost in a snow globe with bits of frozen matter falling, falling, falling all around, and a glass dome to insulate him from the outside world.

It was also creepy, the silence, leaving him alone to think. Sometimes being smart was not so good. Being always right had its consequences, didn’t it? Sometimes Constantine wished he could escape himself, and this was one of those times.

She had been surprised! The wonder of his appearance had been apparent on her face; in her eyes. His heart had leapt at it… at her astonishment. And the way her astonishment had morphed into fear when he’d drawn his pistol, morphing so easily and readily that the expressions had almost been the same, and could easily have been confused for one another by someone who was not so sure of himself as Constantine. And “his” eyes had changed to… that guy’s.

“God,” Constantine thought as he rocked easy in the saddle, “what in Heaven’s name had the two of them been doing when he’d barged in with his, “Ha!” What exactly was that position they were in? Constantine had never seen anything like it, nor even imagined it! His neck grew warm at the thought of it. And his Laura Lee, too! Who would have thought?

Maybe he was not “always” right, after all. Maybe he’d been wrong this time… what he’d done back there. In any event there would be no one awaiting him at the cabin when he got there; no one to talk to. No one to admire his competence. No one to cook his dinner. The cabin would be as quiet as this snow globe he was in, and as lonely too. Maybe he should have been wrong this time. Maybe if he’d been wrong then his Laura Lee would could home. Maybe she would. Maybe.

Removing his glove from the one hand, Constantine pulled the pistol from its holster. The click of the cylinder opening was loud in the silence that was the snow globe. He shucked some shells one at a time from his belt and filled the empty chambers. He held the pistol for a long while, resting it in his lap, liking the way the butt of it felt in his hand, the ergonomics of it, and remembering how it had so violently bucked back yonder.

Without replacing his glove Constantine lifted the pistol’s barrel up to his temple, only somewhat sure that he was right.

The body was more or less untouched, the only trace of violence was the bruises around their neck. I caused those bruises, and I'm okay with that. At first, I placed their body in an arm chair, where they laze about as if their were alive albeit tired.

I honestly just threw them on the chair because I didn't know what else to do. I had never taken another persons life until then, and I was calm but still naive, unaware of how to dispose of a corpse.

While I was fucking around, avoiding responsibility, and I became hungry. I left my cold guest sitting at the kitchen table while I made my way to the fridge.

I didn't have much. I didn't want borderline spoiled milk with stale cereal, nor did I feel like boiling pasta while a cadaver watched me.

The fridge closed and I got an idea. I had spices in the cabinet, a saw in the garage and a large source of meat with no purpose sitting at my table.

I had gotten an idea to solve both my problems. I has able to eat and solve everything.

she lied

took my heart

for a fucked-up ride

so...

i...

hit her with a bat

an' i pried out her eyes

hung her hide up high

for the sun to dry

threw her 32 teeth

at the moon in the sky

tossed her ice-cold bones

to the pigs in a sty

clappin' an' a-singin'

with my knees to my pits

all the rest i pitched

in a mountain of lye

yee-haw!

i'm really goin' now

oh yeah

now...

i'm...

layin' on her hide

by my new girl's side

n'by golly i hope

she don't ever lie

or do nothin' else

might make me mad

oh yeah

gimme a kiss there sweetie

oh yeah

right there

you know i like it right there

no

NOT THERE GOD DAMMIT

I ask myself one single question: why do I enjoy blood? Is it something beautiful in the color? Is it the fact that I can literally hold life in my hand? Is it the power of being able to control the enemy's fate? I don't think so. I think I just like blood; warm and sticky, stingy and irresistible. It's taste as soft as the moth's scaly wing.

There is it: the blood, the wound. The truth: we will all die soon. But me, me, no. I don't die, no. I... I sink my fangs into the living flesh of another. It feels glorious. Living flesh, juicy and sweet. I close my eyes and take a moment. Revel in it, the magic, buzzing, building in my brain. Mmm, it is simply delightful. I hear a gasp and am pulled from my sedative state. My target is dying. I watch. I watch as the last wisps of life leave his eyes. I watch as his last breathe is breathed. I sit and stare, clicking my legs, curiosity bubbling over. After a bit I roll on my back, looking at the sky. The stars are pretty. Hmmph, I guess I'm going back to the mansion, I think, after moments of serenity pass by the sacred art of death. I'm going to say good bye to the statue. "Good bye dead man." I sing in a sing-songy voice. Good bye, I seem to hear him echo. I start prancing toward home and leave the body as another murder case to solve. It will probably end up going cold. Anyway, see ya and good night.

In such a situation, the character would face an immense internal struggle, haunted by guilt and paranoia. They might attempt to clean the crime scene meticulously, eliminate physical evidence, and hide the body in a remote area. A false alibi would be crafted carefully, perhaps using staged social media activity or fabricated messages to place them far from the scene. Yet, despite their best efforts, the psychological weight of the act would begin to crush them, resulting in sleepless nights, constant fear of being discovered, and ultimately, a downward spiral toward self-destruction.

Something I maybe should not have remembered. My... violent tendencies have not resurfaced again. It's funny how time makes things less significant. All the names and the faces mixing together into a bloody liver pâte; it's like it never even happened. The most recent memory came last night, when I knew it was going to happen again. He already dealt with it.

There is no way to sum this up, but I'm in a pickle. How is it even possible to clean up this amount of blood? How much blood is in a human body? I never learned such things. All I know is, that it's literally everywhere.

I'm watching it soak into now dark ground. And what had he said before the died? Language has always been a hard subject to understand for me. Had he judged me? Did he call God's wrath down upon me? He seemed so angry. Screaming at the top of his lungs like that. It wasn't my fault the tent had been left wide open. His fault that this was the end he met if anything. I remain blameless in this ordeal.

His blood was aromatic. Almost intoxicating; I sniff the air. Jesus the smell is so potent, others will probably be coming soon. I will have to do something with this "mess". I craned my neck to stare down at his empty eyes. Soulless now.

Blood has pooled around his cheek against the floor. I almost can't stop myself. I east forward, my tongue licks the surface. The blood delicious in my mouth. I feel the pit in my stomach lurch. So, hungry. Why the hell not, I think. I took a glorious bite out of his side and swallow it nearly without chewing. The meat was tender and juicy.

Before long, my belly is full. I can barely move. I stare at the body lying there. So much still left, I could never finish it all. Can't really take it with me either. I give a few more perfunctory sniffs, and saunter outside. Unfortunately, this is the world. This is life. This is how it pans out sometimes when humans venture out to live in the Serengeti.