CRAVE

The last thing I remember is kissing her, and now she lies lifeless between my knees. The twitching, green light highlights the gory sight of her body. A pungent taste of blood comes to my tongue. For a second I don’t know where it is coming from. The rigging in my ear blinds all my senses. I can’t hear any of my thoughts.

“Housekeeping for room 100.” A knock comes through the door.

I open my mouth to tell her to go away, but the words get stuck in my throat.

“Anyone in there?” the voice comes again. I can hear the key struggling to find the opening.

“Not right now,” a whimper jumps out of me.

“Is everything alright in there, ma’am?” There is no response. “Okay, I will come back after I finish this floor, in about twenty minutes.”

I hear her footsteps move away from the door, and a distant, “Housekeeping for room 101.”

Twenty minutes.

I am definitely going to jail.

There is music coming from the room next door, it doesn't let me concentrate on the situation at hand. Her boyfriend's band has been “practicing” for the past two hours. Sid abandons her every night to go drawn in alcohol along with his bandmates—disguises it as rehearsal.

Could I frame this on him?

No one knows that I exist in her life; the way I crave to own her breaths; the desire to consume her every thought; the constant hunger to be in her presence. No one knows about the custody I feel over her existence. 

I will sneak out of this room, scrub the dried blood from my body, and burn my clothes. In twenty minutes, housekeeping will come back and call the police. There will be no evident witness other than Sid—not when tequila and smoke are spouting out of his and his alibi’s mouths.

I will be at Copacabana club reporting on Sam Cooke's opening show, by the time he gets to jail. I will wash this night and the Chelsea Hotel right off my skin. And never look back.

But why would he get to keep her? To take all the credit. All her love. She prefers me. She is mine…She was mine.

…She is still mine.

I can’t stomach the idea of someone else touching her; executing under the skin I want to crawl into; pressing their fingers through her wounds; opening her up to see the way her organs bleed.

All my instincts call her name. My heart tastes like her. I need her coursing through my veins. Only I get to carry her with me till the day I die. I would sacrifice my sanity for her.

Twenty minutes.

I need to get rid of the evidence…fast. 

I watch as a teardrop slowly slides down my cheek, to land at her filthy belly button. I take my teeth to her neck, and finally dare another bite out her flesh—she did always loved it when I touched her neck.