The Complete Collection (2 page)

I work in the library three days a week. I
don’t need the money. Between what my grandmother left me and what Daniel gives
me, I am comfortable. But I still work because love books. They don’t talk. Out
loud, at least.

Portia is my boss. She is sweet but nosy
about my life. She thinks I need to date. I don’t need to date. I don’t want to
date. Portia is older than me by about twenty years. She has grandchildren who
she doesn’t see very often. Her son lives in another state, so I often get the
leftovers of her untapped maternal urges.

“Ainsley, you look tired. Why don’t you
take a long lunch?”

“Thank you, Portia. I’m fine. I brought
my lunch, but maybe I will sit outside and read in the sun.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?
You look pale.”

Oh, Portia. You’re so sweet. But get
off my back.

“I’m fine, thank you.” I turn and go
about my work, sorting and stacking in the peace and quiet. Trying to keep away
from her prying comments.

“Why do you always dress in such dark
colors, Ainsley?”

Because I’m hoping to hide from you
and anyone else interested in my business.

I don’t say this. That would be mean.

“You could use some color. You’re still
a young woman. Brighten yourself up. Find a boyfriend. I worry about you up in
that house by yourself all the time.”

“I don’t want a boyfriend, Portia. I
want to be left alone.” I say this in my nicest but firmest way.

Portia gets the hint.

I enjoy my peace for a bit until I hear
her singsong voice interrupting me again.

“Ainsley, Sam is here!”

This time, I don’t mind the
interruption. She is probably happier to see Sam than I am. She says she still carries
a torch for the two of us. I never tell anyone of the pains I carry.

Sam has been my friend since high
school. We dated briefly, but it never went anywhere. Some might call it puppy
love. It was an innocent type of thing. He still calls me by my high school
nickname.

“Hey, A.J. How’s it going? Let’s go
outside and have lunch.”

If I could feel love, I’d say I might be
in love with Sam. Instead, I am just obsessed. I’ve been obsessed for almost twenty
years, give or take. We lost touch when he spent several years traveling for
work. But he moved back a few years ago, conveniently, after Daniel and I
divorced. It was good timing for me. I needed someone. I still do.

Sam has always been my angel. Even in my
darkest times I know he is always beside me, like he was when the other A was
lost to me. He inspires my good side. He still helps me believe, sometimes,
that I have the potential for wholesome happiness. Truthfully, I’m not ready to
entirely give up on that, although the Blacksmith tells me my time is near. Sam
looks a little bit like my Blacksmith. Their eyes are very similar.

I wonder what our baby would look like.
Would he have their eyes?

I am good at hiding my obsession. I
maintain control even when Sam tells me about all his dates. He even tells me
about the ones he has sex with, and how it is. I dig my fingernails into my
palm, and I can keep smiling. Luckily, when Sam talks about things like that,
he barely pauses to see if I have anything to say or if I’m even paying
attention. That’s the way Sam is sometimes.

Someone watching us would never know the
merciless razor of jealousy ripping through my insides. Sometimes, I dig my
nails into my palm so hard I bleed. I pretend that the skin of my palm is the
girl’s neck. That helps me smile.

Sam doesn’t get it. He treats me like
I’m just one of the guys. I’m all right with that as long as he stays around.
I’d rather him be oblivious than have him leave my side. Or think of me as some
kind of crazy stalker. Which I’m not.

I’m not crazy.

Am I?

“So, how’s your garden coming along?”
Sam gestures to the dirt under my fingernails.

His hair is brown and wavy. He has dark
eyes, like my Blacksmith’s. Dark and shiny, like metal.

But Sam is not dead. He is definitely
alive. Sometimes I think that is why I’m so attracted to him. My coldness
reaches for his warmth, his flame. Everyone loves Sam. I take what I can get.

“Not bad.”

“Why don’t I ever get any tomatoes?
You’re always tending that garden, and I never see any of it.”

I smile. Sam is cute.

“I don’t grow tomatoes. You probably
wouldn’t want anything that I grow.”

“Well, maybe I’d know that if I ever
came over. But you never invite me.”

I bite my lip when he isn’t looking. We
are sitting out on the library steps in the sun. Where Sam belongs. His hair
shines in the sun. His laughter is summer. The sun hurts my eyes.

“You can come over any time you want.
You know that.”

“Well, maybe one of these days, I’ll
take you up on it. I want to see this famous garden of yours.”

I would love to show Sam my garden. I
can show him the places where I have slept among the graves and the places
where I have done things. Bad things. While thinking about him.

If anyone could understand, it’s Sam.
But I am not quite ready to take that chance.

My library clothes are very conservative.
They cover what I keep buried. I even wear those cliché librarian glasses. I
pull my hair back. I don’t like high heels. That’s how I like to dress. It used
to make my grandmother so angry.

“You’re such a pretty girl. Why do you
hide under all those clothes?”

Because I like to hide, grandmother. There are ugly
things within me that no one should ever see.

“Fix your hair. Put on some makeup.”

I didn’t always dress that way. When I
met my ex-husband, I dressed to show my body more. But even then, I never
dressed the way I do now, when I go out at night.

Despite all my hiding, I do like to go
out some nights. I never know when I’ll be in the mood. Most of the time, I am
content to stay among the dead. Among the whispering ghosts and the cold,
crumbling stone. Other nights, I can’t take the silence. The loneliness.
Thoughts of Sam drive me into the night.

I wear all black. Short, short skirts.
Fishnet stockings. Knee-high boots. Lace shirts or other see-through things.

I put on makeup.

I use liquid eyeliner to trace thick,
black lines around my eyes. I spread blush over my cheeks. I paint my mouth a
shiny, cherry red. My grandmother used to say that girls who wear red on their
lips are trying to make boys think of other body parts. I’m okay with that.

I live within walking distance of the
train, so I head there and get on the next train out. My money is tucked into
my red lace bra.

The train ride is short. Some men look
at me. I look back. I’m not shy in this outfit. I’m a different person. Another
Ainsley. An Ainsley that not even Sam would recognize. Portia might have
fainted.

At my stop, I get off the train and head
to the nearest nightclub. I pay my cover charge. A loud band is playing awful
music. I hate it. But this is where I need to be right now.

It doesn’t take long. I have my drink in
hand and am shimmying along with the music when a young man approaches me. I
can already tell he is an arrogant one. 

Perfect.

“Hey, gorgeous. Want to dance?”

“Sure.”

We move our bodies together for a while.
His name is Paul. He just started a job in the area. He lives in a nearby
apartment with a roommate. Paul brags that he comes from money. That his job is
amazing. That he is going to buy a Porsche once he makes his first million,
which he expects to do by thirty.

Paul is over ten years younger than I
am, but he either doesn’t know or doesn’t care. I have a feeling he doesn’t
notice much about anyone but himself. Paul is starting to remind me of my
ex-husband. The Blacksmith has told me to feed my anger. Let it take over. Give
in to this hate. This rage.

Tonight is working out perfectly.

I touch Paul a lot. I touch his arm. I touch his knee.
I laugh at all of his jokes. The next song comes on, and Paul stays seated in a
barstool. I turn my back to him and dance between his legs, moving my body
against his. His hands are on my hips. When I can’t see him, I pretend his
hands are Sam’s.

Most of the time when I pick guys up, I
pretend they are Sam.

Sometimes, if they are really rough, I
imagine that my Blacksmith has taken over their bodies with his spirit. I look
deeply into their eyes and I see him there. He is strong and protective. He
possesses me. He owns me. He has branded me.

Then I do something for him—my
Blacksmith.

Paul leans into my ear.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

He takes my hand and leads me through
the crowded bar and out the front door.

“How did you get here?”

“I took the train. I don’t live that far
from here by car. And I live alone…”

“Sweet, let’s go.”

I look at Paul as we drive. He is
relatively handsome. Not my type. Too fair, too blond. Too Fairfield County:
arrogant, entitled asshole. He has the look of an aristocrat, condescending to
consort with a lucky, chosen peasant. It would never occur to Paul that I could
be anything but thrilled by his attentions. He thinks he chose me.

Actually, I chose him.

“Have you ever been in love, Paul?”

“Have I? Uh. I don’t know. I guess so.”

“You would know if you had been in
love.”

“How about you?”

“My heart doesn’t work properly
anymore.”

He looks at me, as if for the first
time. But he is too horny to turn back now.

I direct Paul up my driveway. The road
is dark and bumpy.

“Shit, you live up here by yourself?
Aren’t you scared?”

I have my protector in the backyard. But
he doesn’t need to know that.

“I’m used to it. I’ve lived here all my
life.” I pause. “Why? Are you?” I smile.

He laughs, a little nervously.

We stop on the patio, and I tell him to
wait outside in the summer evening.

I grab two bottles of beer and come back
outside.

“Let’s go up to the backyard. I want to
show you something.”

“Up there?” He hesitantly gestures into
the darkness.

I kiss him then, tongue first, hard. His
hands grab my ass tightly. I pull away.

“Don’t you want to see what I have to
show you? Come on. We’ll play hide and seek.” I run into the dark.

Paul runs after me, laughing. “Hey,
wait!”

I run to my graveyard garden. I light
the candles and wait on the bench.

Paul finds me quickly, following the
flickering 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.