Page 71 of Marked By Feral Monsters
Dead.
"What did you do? What did you do!" I scream.
I think I'm going to throw up again. My stomach churns.
Eric doesn't respond. Of course he doesn't.
Five minutes pass. Maybe. I've lost track of time.
I want to scream. To fight with him, to askwhy, to go back half an hour and never bring Angel inside.
And then Angel's body lifts from the bed. Eric's carrying him, but to me, it looks as if he's floating in the air. His dead limbs sway, sun-streaked hair limp and long. I liked his hair. And his laugh.
They're nearly out of sight before I force myself to get up.
I follow the procession, nauseous, naked, but can't form any words. It's past midnight. Dark out, all the neighbors likely sound asleep. I don't think they can see into my backyard anyway, and I should be more concerned about whether they can or not.
But I'm numb. My mind went from racing, trying to piece together what the fuck just happened, replaying the last few moments in fragmented, horrifying loops to just… silence. Incoherent thoughts. Emotions. Sadness for the man I barely knew, whose only crime was coming home with me. And white-hot anger towards Eric.
I watch as the earth parts in the backyard. Some of it is Eric, likely digging with his hands. The dirt shifts, but it also feels like the house is helping him, pulling back roots to make the burial easier.
The body drops into the deep grave beneath the bushes. The guilt and horror nearly suffocate me as the dirt pours over the body. My hands are clammy. My heart races. Eric plants a baby rose bush atop the grave.
Numbly, I walk back inside and take a seat at the kitchen table.
I should call the police.
But I don't.
"Why not the front yard?" I croak.
It's the only thing I've said since it happened. Disgust slithers through every vein and out every pore, still stuck on the feeling of someone else's death inside my body, the guilt of having brought Angel home banging loudly in my head, like someone's taken a metal pot to my brain.
A minute passes. I hear the front door open. Another minute. And then Eric sets a rose on the table in front of me.
The rose bushes.
So, that's where he got the idea to bury Angel's body.
Whatfuckingirony.
I feel hollow. And the feeling doesn't leave for days. Weeks.
Wake, work, eat, sleep. But it's different now, clouded by death and more secrets. Not Greta's this time.
Eric eventually apologizes.
But that means nothing.
My lover is a murderer, and I'm his accomplice. I should have stopped him from burying the body. I should have called the police, told them where Angel's buried.
Something stirs in my chest. It's like the house takes a breath. And it feeds me its strength.
Is this what happened to Greta? I tense and take a breath, and so does the house—because it's become a part of me?
Is this what I have to look forward to?
Eric
