Page 140 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I lunge and scoop him up with blood-slick hands. He wriggles like he doesn’t understand the problem. Like his gourmet dog food wasn’t enough and now he’s feeling adventurous.

“No eyeballs,” I scold. “We donotsnack on serial killers.”

I clutch him to my chest, his little heart hammering against mine, and I finally look at it all.

The scene.

The carnage.

What I did.

What Icando.

And the fog lifts just enough for the question I’d been hoping to avoid:

“…Now what in the lemon-drop dandy do I do?”

I stagger to my feet, Dexter in one arm, and bolt for the door. I fumble the knob, shove it open, and slam it behind me.

There’s blood on my door. My face. My arms. My everything.

I look like I just walked off a slasher film, and all I can think about is the Eye of Sauron sitting on my driveway.

I can’t move forward. I can’t breathe until it’s gone.

I try to prioritize the to-do list in my mind.

Hide the body.

Wash the blood.

Bathe in lemon-scented disinfectant.

But no—nothing can happen until the eyeball is gone. Out of sight and off the driveway.

I go to the kitchen, open the utensil drawer, and grab the first thing I see.

A spatula? No.

How ridiculous. What on earth can you do with a spatula?

Tongs? I’d feel the eye give—soft squish, rolling weight. Absolutely not.

A spoon? This isn’t an Easter egg race.

I need something distant. Functional. Something to help me pretend I’m not removing a literal eyeball from my property.

Ah. The turkey baster.

Nestled in the back of the drawer like it’s been waiting its whole life for this moment.

I stare at it, and can’t believe I’m seriously considering this buuut…

The nozzle is a little wide. Maybe eyeball size? Yes. This could work.

“I guess it’s not just for Thanksgiving any more.”

Dexter stays tucked under my arm like a panting loaf of bread. I make my way to the door, my bloody steps squeaking like clown shoes.

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