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Blood splatters across Lizzie’s chin, into her mouth. She feels her left eye twitching and smacks her lips, inadvertently brushing her tongue on her upper lip. The coppery taste of blood explodes in her mouth.
It’s quiet around Lizzie’s little pumpkin shack. Cleo’s allies have left, probably returning to the castle on the other side of the mountain where they’ll be respawning in a fresh new body without wounds.
And, well. Lizzie looks down at the body at her feet. That Cleo is particularly silent. Most of their skull has been bashed in and scattered in the dirt, like a rotten pumpkin.
Lizzie crouches, taking care not to drop the hem of her dress in the gore, and brushes a hand through Cleo’s hair.
It’s quite an intimate gesture. She would never have been able to do it to a live Cleo.
Stupid, stupid Cleo. Getting themself killed in such a stupid, stupid way. No fault of Lizzie’s own, of course. Lizzie’s never really managed to get clean kills like this. Shame, it really is.
And now, Lizzie’s got to deal with this cumbersome body.
She sighs. She could bury it, of course. She’s buried her fair share. Often, her own bodies but who’s counting. She could bring it inside. Cleo will probably be back for the stuff on the body.
The body in and of itself doesn’t really matter. As soon as Cleo respawned in their bed at the castle, it became useless. They won’t be back for it. Lizzie might as well keep it.
She drags it inside the house, red blood seeping into the pink cherry wood. What a lovely cottage, Lizzie thought while building it, I’ll invite my friends over and never be alone. She grunts as Cleo’s body snags against the door frame. She adjusts her grip on Cleo’s ankles, feeling the skin come loose.
A body doesn’t usually start rotting for a while, but Cleo’s skin is already in poor condition. Lizzie tugs a little harder and there’s a sickeningly wet sound, as the skin on Cleo’s shoulder comes straight off.
‘Oh my God. Just my luck.’
Lizzie steps around the body and lifts it inside, which is quite a fit because it’s not that light.
‘I’m sorry, baby,’ she says softly, which would never be allowed with a live Cleo.
A good part of her forearms are slick with gore now. She smears a lot of it on Cleo’s temple when she goes to brush a strand back behind her ear. And her poor dress. Even the cotton slip under the dark blue fabric of her skirt is stained.
She kneels next to the body, damn the dress, and starts fixing the clothes as best as she can. The strap on Cleo’s leotard came off at the same time as the skin and Lizzie puts it back gently. Beauty in death. A feeble attempt at control, she’s aware, but it makes her feel better.
And Cleo is beautiful.
There is no tension in her shoulders. Her hair cascades down to the floor in pretty rivulets. The better part of her face is missing, sure, but her remaining jaw is slack. There is no pain anymore. No fight in her.
Lizzie hasn’t seen this Cleo in a very long time. Before the fire. A Cleo who doesn’t want her dead, a Cleo who’s not actively trying to kill her. Lizzie misses it a little bit.
A bit of Cleo’s lips remain and Lizzie touches them gently. Desire bubbles inside her. And with it, as always, pit-dark jealousy and hatred.
She lifts her fingers to her lips, licking Cleo’s blood off of them. It tastes metallic and warm and delicious.
There’s a moment of hesitation, of shame, maybe. Lizzie listens out. There are no voices outside her hut, no footsteps, just the lapping of water on the edge of the lake. No one to see her moment of weakness.
She leans in and brushes her lips against Cleo’s. This would never be allowed. It makes it taste twice as sweet.
There’s growling in Lizzie’s stomach. An animalistic hunger, a gut-wrenching desire.
It’s easy to tear the lip free. Her teeth sink into it, the tender meat ripping like soft tissue. Blood drips down her chin. Her body still lurches, trying uselessly to avoid splattering the front of her dress.
Something breaks. Without restraint, Lizzie grabs the gore and carries it to her mouth in a reverence that could be holy if not for the animalistic pleasure she takes in tearing at it.
To eat, to own, to have.
She swallows thickly but still can’t stop herself from eating more. She nearly chokes on it. The meat is almost rotten through, has been for a while, because it’s Cleo. She eats it anyway, because it’s Cleo.
‘Oh, Lizzie,’ a voice says.
She glances down at the mangled body. It would seem impossible for someone with such a lack of face to be able to speak that clearly, but it is Cleo’s voice she heard.
Realisation hits her at the same time as her stomach churns. She looks up, her hands starting to shake.
Cleo is standing in the doorway, with a casual tilt to their hips and a slightly disappointed look on their face. And they are so very alive.
They cross their arms over their chest. The simple rise of their skin has Lizzie tracking the movement like a predator. She feels rabid. She needs to say something.
I’m sorry , she’s not. I didn’t mean to , she did. I love you , she does.
Cleo tuts and shakes her head in mock-disappointment.
‘What are we going to do with you?’ She drawls as she walks over to Lizzie’s crouched form. ‘Probably something nasty.’
There’s something dark in Cleo’s look. It pins Lizzie in place. Something hungry. The same way Cleo’s been looking at her since the fire.
Cleo wraps a finger around a strand of Lizzie’s hair, twirling absentmindedly. They absolutely tower over her but Lizzie isn’t afraid. She trusts Cleo in whatever they’re about to do to her.
Cleo kneels next to Lizzie. It’s easy now to see the difference between this Cleo and that Cleo. She’s animated, pulsing with life despite the palid skin. Her hair bounces like wildfire. Her eyebrows have a playful tilt, her eyes a mirthful glint, her mouth a hidden smile.
Cleo’s hand scoops Lizzie’s jaw and she feels herself go lax, malleable like clay.
‘Haven’t you heard the saying,’ Cleo asks.
Even if Lizzie had, she wouldn’t have been able to speak.
‘Greedy. Choke. Puppy.’ Cleo answers, punctuating the words by flicking their tongue across their teeth.
Lizzie wishes it was her tongue, her teeth. Cleo’s lips look so much more alive, she needs to know what it would taste like.
She sees Cleo’s eyes dart to her mouth before she realises she’s licking her lips. There’s a playful smirk to Cleo’s mouth as their hand travels from Lizzie’s jaw to brush her hair off her shoulder. Some pink strands stick to Lizzie’s chin, dragging bloody streaks in fine lines across her cheek.
‘Is this okay?’ Cleo asks.
Lizzie presents her neck, whispering a hoarse ‘Yeah.’
Cleo’s mouth traces the outline of Lizzie’s neck. Their hand brushes the heavy cotton straps of her overdress, revealing the pale skin of her traps. Lizzie has half a thought about Cleo having at least the common sense of closing the pumpkin hut door behind them, before Cleo’s teeth graze her neck. All she can do is lace her hands behind Cleo’s back and let go.
At first, Cleo’s mouth is light. They kiss Lizzie’s skin, gently, then they nibble, the press of their teeth as present as a pin prick. Cleo licks a strip from Lizzie’s collarbone to her shoulder and Lizzie has to bite her lip to make sure she doesn’t let out a noise.
Then, Cleo bites down on her neck. Right in the meaty part, where it meets the shoulder. Past the collarbone, into her trapezoid. Lizzie’s hands inadvertently dig into Cleo’s back but they don’t relent. And Lizzie is not sure she wants them to.
The pain is lightning white. It shoots through Lizzie’s entire body. There’s another sickly squelch as Cleo moves their head back and Lizzie sees the blood on their chin.
Cleo’s mouth darts out to pick some gore out of their teeth. It’s the most beautiful thing Lizzie has ever seen. To eat is to have, and now, Cleo has some of Lizzie.
She watches, raptured, as Cleo’s molars work the tender meat of her neck. There’s an animalistic way to it. It’s primal. Like love, like hate, like hunger are primal. In Cleo’s eyes, Lizzie sees the same wildness Cleo must have seen in her. Desire, unmitigated by rules or reasons.
She topples Cleo over, landing harshly on top of them. Cleo’s hair spreads out across the floor like molten lava and their face looks up at Lizzie like this is the most intimate gesture anyone has ever done for them.
Years ago, Lizzie straddles Cleo’s body in the middle of a burning forest. Animalistic hatred in her eyes, reflected in Cleo’s alongside the flames.
‘I’ve always wanted to do this,’ Lizzie says. ‘Wanted you.’
Cleo doesn’t reply. Instead, they pull Lizzie down into a voracious kiss. Teeth press against the skin of her lips and she lets Cleo take a nasty bite.
I want you. I want you. I want you. Oh, it all makes sense now. A truth of the universe, revealed in that simple intimate gesture. Closer, still not close enough.
This must be why we have canines.