Page 141 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Outside, the air has changed.

Heavier. Metallic. The scent of blood baked into the house under the low evening light old pennies.

And there it is.

The eye.

Sitting there like a rejected marble.

The floodlight glints off it. My throat tightens.

Dexter sniffs toward it again.

“Don’t even think about it, buddy,” I whisper, lowering myself as every joint screams this is a bad idea.

I keep my gaze just off-center—like if I look straight at it, I’ll go mad.

Like it’ll curse me if we make eye contact.

Ha. Eye contact. Get it?

The baster hovers, trembling in my hand. I squeeze the bulb.

I hesitate.

Then I release.

The suction is wet, and immediate.

But the eye slips, rolls slightly, and I almost drop Dexter from how violently I recoil. My stomach lurches and I cough, nearly retching. The baster has a smear of blood inside, but no eye.

I gag and Dexter complains but we try again.

The baster wobbles in my grip.

I reposition, squeeze and release.

This time, itslurpsinside.

There’s a nauseating pop as it fills the clear tube like the world’s worst science fair project.

And… it’s in there.

Looking at me.

Veiny. Glazed. Judgmental.

I hold it out like it’s radioactive. I can’t put it down. Can’t bring it inside. Can’t think with it… staring at me.

I set Dexter down gently—he gives me a look likeAre you sure that’s wise, Mother?

I move to the body.

I don’t want to touch him. Every cell in me screamsdon’t, but I can’t leave this eyeball tube like a grisly driveway ornament. I need it hidden.

I crouch. Reach out. With my thumb and forefinger—just the tips—I pinch the edge of his shirt sleeve. Not even fabric. Just thread.

It lifts slowly. Heavy with death. My other hand trembles as I slide the baster beneath the arm like a weird, murderous thermometer.

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