WHEN BAD DOGS DO GOOD THINGS

Love Is The Poison of Life

Love is the Poison of Life

As I climb to my feet, feeling lucky that the only thing covering my body is my underwear as blood is trickling over my feet and onto the ground, I look at the skeletons at the edges of the room. I've felt lucky enough to ignore them, to treat them as invisible sculptures in the room with me, slumped over one another in dog piles.

One thing that I immediately notice is that there are some belongings of the corpses glimmering on the ground, visible now that I'm closer. There are wedding rings, pieces of ornate jewelry, earrings, and most notably on a skeleton that is lying face down not terribly far from where I was restrained, a set of black spiral gauges which had once sat in her ears.

I stare at the remains of the woman I once was so enamored with. Her skin has been torn from the bone and if Ben is to be believed, it's not as a result of rot but as a result of him ripping her flesh and consuming it. I ponder if he's served me pieces of her as one of my gourmet meals. All that remains of Kim is her skeleton and gauges.

I find myself intrigued by how blank she looks. The cranium, the ribs, the legs, the digits, they're all there, but it's weird seeing her without her hair, without her gauges, without the scars on her arm, without her breasts, as if Kim never happened. I'm sure that some forensic scientist could do some DNA testing or whatever to test if it's really her lying there and cross reference that with a strand of hair, but as far as I'm concerned, there's an anonymous skeleton lying there. My heart thumps in my chest and then seems to split in two. Love is the poison of life. I should feel nothing. This is her fault. She wanted this.

"Fuck you," I snarl, turning away and to the door, pissed now. I wish she was alive so I could slam her fucking head into the stone beneath me.

I hurry to the door that I've seen Ben come through with my meals, the blood now over the tops of my feet, stinging like hell. Little drops are meeting the floor but as the flow increases, I am sure that I'll be leaving red footprints behind me.

I yank the handle, pulling the door forward with a loud creek and allowing a rush of cold air to penetrate the room. I'm almost amazed that it's open.

What greets me is what almost looks like a mine tunneled through the underground. Hanging from the ceiling are ratchet-looking mining lanterns that are linked by metal fuselage tubings that travel along the ceiling that must transport oil through the underground space. These lanterns are about ten feet from one another, creating flickering, deep shadows in the orange light.

Staring at them beneath the pain of my feet, I am revolted by the waste: does he really just keep these oil lanterns running 24/7? They accomplish a spooky aesthetic, but they seem to continue along the length of the tunnel, which curves sharply to the right and goes onward, so the amount of money it probably costs to keep them running to illuminate a tunnel that only fucking he walks down is absurd in the name of having an eccentric cannibal rich guy aesthetic. What a fucking loser. I chuckle.

Rickety-looking wooden supports create archways below the earthy ceiling and walls, seeming pathetically weak against the weight of the earth.

Beneath my feet are black rubber matts to keep me protected from the rough dirt floor, thank God Ben prioritizes cleanliness. As the blood flow seems to increase the fluid pouring out of me (am I getting dizzy?)I leave wet, barely visible bloody footprints beneath me. They glimmer in the lantern light so once Ben comes back down here, he'll know I've gotten out.

The path curves to the right and I keep following it, biting my tongue to keep from whimpering in pain from the scorching irritation that getting out of the restraints has left. I have to stop to take deep breaths every so often, because deep, desperate pants are escaping from my lungs and I am feeling weak.