Page 2 of Beneath Her Skin

“Yah!” I shriek, beckoning Jasper to bolt full speed towards our target. The sharp puffs from his nose and the beat of his hooves against the ground steadily drum in my ears. I toss my head back to laugh, enjoying the wind as it whips through my hair.

Hats wave out in the stands! The crowd shouts their demands for the piggy to run faster!

Little piggy falls on his face, unable to change direction quick enough before I cut in front of him. “Old MacDonald had a farm,” I croon. I reel Jasper back, giving the piggy a chance to get up so he can hopelessly run in another direction. Cat gives me the ready signal from over by the chute, where she has made a fresh mud pit with a hose. I wait until he’s a measly twentyfeet from me before riding up on him again, cutting him off and forcing him back towards the chute. “E-I-E-I-O!”

“And on this farm he had a…” Catalina howls, reaching out to grab the passing pig and slam him into the mud. He grunts loudly as his back squelches into the muck.

“Pig!” we vocalize in unison as I toss a circle of rope around his neck. He rolls in the mud, fighting the rope in a futile effort without the use of his arms. I pull back on it, cutting off his air supply. The pungent scent of fear rises from the mud, and I savor it like it’s the smell of my favorite meal. If I could see behind his mask, I guarantee a river of snot and tears would be trailing down his sad little face.

“Pig! Pig! Pig!”

“E-I-E-I-O!” we serenade. I loosen my hold on the rope as Catalina straddles him, holding his squirming body between her strong thighs. She slams one palm into his chest, knocking any remaining wind from his lungs. He gurgles, sputtering and gasping for air. Cat pulls the mask back from his face a couple of inches before letting it snap back. She gleefully laughs before pushing her full weight against him, forcing him to roll to his stomach. With a knee on his back, she grabs his tied wrists in one hand and reaches for a coil of barbed wire with the other. As she wraps the wire around his arms, the barbs sink into his flesh. Blood trickles from the small lacerations, making my mouth water with its sweet, metallic scent.

“BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!”

Catalina tightens the strand and draws his arms back to his ankles. Piggy lets out a strangled cry as she contorts his body into the unnatural shape needed to secure his limbs together. Rivulets of scarlet trail down his arms and legs as the barbed wire digs in deeper with each squirm. She releases him and Piggy flops to his side, splashing back into the mud.

Cat stands to admire her work and brings her boot under the piggy’s chin. She uses it to tilt his head until it almost touches his back. “With an oink oink here,” she continues. “And an…” She pauses, waiting for him to finish the line, but she quickly loses her patience. “I don’t hear you.”

A stream of boos come from the stands.

The pig utters a pathetic squeak instead of the oink she was hoping for. This one is not a crowd pleaser. Agitated and displeased, Cat slams her boot into his face. He squawks against the gag, and a wet, hacking cough racks his entire body as he chokes on the blood pouring from his nose. Liquid red steadily drips from under the mask.

“BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!”

“Close enough,” she chuckles and turns to me. I sit on my horse with a wide smile proudly plastered across my face, admiring my baby in all her murderous glory. Her eyes sparkle as she flashes a grin back at me, setting my heart ablaze. I don’t get to see her like this often, since she prefers the disposal processafterI’ve had my fun.

The body below her groans again, wiggling in the mud more like a grub than a pig. Cat spits on him, a thick wad splatting against the mask. She pulls a gutting knife from the sheath around her ankle, hidden by her boot, and crouches next to the piggy. She wipes the mud from the blade against her jeans until the hooked tip shines in the bright arena lights. With the knife in one hand, she grips the piggy’s hair in her other and raises his muddy head.

The crowd goes silent, holding a collective breath.

“E-I-E-I-O!” we holler together. Piggy’s squeals blend into our chorus as Cat stabs the knife into his diaphragm, working the blade down past his navel. The noise of his gristle coming apart to expose his soft insides sounds like a mixture of unzipping a jacket and tearing a thick piece of paper. Cat flayshis skin back, opening him up with the same enthusiasm as a child unwrapping a gift on Christmas. Beneath all the blood, his membranes shine like oil atop water. When Cat steps back, I jerk the rope taut again and snap my reins, giving Jasper the go-ahead to make his final lap around the corral.

As we pull away from the chute into the spotlights of the arena, little piggy’s innards spill out like ribbons trailing behind us. “E-I-E-I-O!” I sing once more, dragging out the ‘o’ in a last, long note.

The crowd erupts, cheering until their faces turn red and stomping their feet until the stands rattle. “Sadie Rae made him pay! Sadie Rae made him pay!”

2

My arm hangs out the truck window, no shade to keep the unforgiving sun from beating down on it. Smoke lazily rises from the cigarette in my hand. Once the roasting heat finally becomes unbearable, I snuff the cigarette and pull my arm back inside. The friction of sticky perspiration between me and the door tugs at my skin. I cringe, wishing for even a semblance of a breeze to grace us with its presence. The crinkle of Cat’s candy wrapper stings my ears, and my head snaps in her direction. She glances up at me with a devious smile, shrugs her shoulders, and then shoves part of a candy bar into her mouth.

The crowd in my head is no longer cheering, silent for over a week now. Instead, I’m left with dark thoughts that claw and scratch, fighting to rise to the surface, demanding to be heard. They leave me exhausted and raw, like an exposed nerve.

A dull pain throbs in the back of my head. Cat’s chewing smacks in my ears. My jaw tightens at the offensive noise. My teeth grind together, and I avert my eyes from the irritating push and pull of her cheeks. My gaze drifts to the rear-view mirror as a small pickup truck pulls up to one of Lucille’s four ancientgas pumps. A man in jeans and a grease-stained work shirt gets out, fumbles with the machine for a few minutes, then gives it a kick and a curse before heading inside. His stupid cowboy hat instantly fills me with white-hot rage. The low buzz in my head amplifies to the screaming pitch of a train whistle. I swat at Cat’s arm to get her attention, and she quickly shoves the rest of the chocolate into her mouth before sliding across the bench seat, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.

“Who’d ya clock?” she mumbles with her mouth full, her eyes following my line of sight. She rests her hand on my upper thigh and gives it a playful squeeze. Heat pools between my legs but does little to soothe the venom coursing through my body.

“He’s already inside, but he’ll fit the bill. Stupid cowboy hat and all.” I open the door and step out, looking back at her. She purses her lips but slides into my spot behind the wheel. “Bring the truck around back as soon as you see him following me.”

Catalina gives me a silent salute, and a thought weasels its way into my consciousness—she only caters to your sick little needs because she feels guilty for taking you to the bar that night.

The rattle of the truck’s engine coming to life snaps me out of my spiral and back to the parking lot. Outside the entrance of the small store, I stop to tighten both pigtails and pull my shorts a little higher, letting the bottom of my ass pop out below the denim. “It’s showtime,” I whisper.

The cool A/C blasts me as I open the door, and the abrupt change in temperature sends goosebumps racing up my arms. I let my eyes adjust to the dim store lighting before choosing a random aisle to stroll down. Lucille’s, being the only stop around for miles, isn’t just a gas station. It’s also a mini-mart and feed store, convenient both on a normal day and one like today, where I’ll use the cover of the aisles to stalk my prey.

As I check each empty aisle, an agitated voice comes from the direction of the checkout counter. I stroll past the shelves of canned goods and stop midway. I pick up a can of soup just in case I quickly need to pretend I’m only here to shop. Then, standing on tip-toe, I peer over the shelf. The man’s voice abruptly intensifies, almost causing me to drop the soup. I shove it back into its place and unabashedly allow myself to watch the scene unfold.

“Well, if you can’t make the fuckin’ pumps work, you can at least hand me the key to the shitter,” he shouts at Lucille, owner and sole employee of the store he’s raising a fuss in. If he keeps talking to her like that, she might end him before I get the chance to try. Even from back here, I see her eyebrows knit together and her eyes darken.

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