All I see is blood. It spills upon me tender but fulsome, splattering eyelids, cheeks and mouth. I taste it and I know her. I feel it slick between my hands, between my legs and I feel her. I breathe her in and drink up her incarnadine love and I regret nothing.
The first time I saw her she was behind bars. I was the special guest at the opening of ‘The Spirit of the Panther’ compound at Bowland Zoological Gardens. I was the person who cut the ribbon and then smiled graciously before making a quick getaway. However, before I left, I saw her, skulking behind the freshly planted foliage of her enclosure. After a fleeting glimpse of her black sinews twisting in the dying sunlight, I was bewitched. Money can buy you anything you desire. And I desired her.
After I’d paid out a ridiculous amount of cash to various people, both official and unofficial, she was mine. I could provide her with more than the zoo ever could. My house is surrounded by more than 10 000 acres of forest and, with an electric fence here and security camera there, I could give her the full run of the place.
I paid people to keep her happy, to clean her bedding, to keep her living areas filled with exotic greenery, to check her teeth and claws, but I was the one who fed her. I was the one who watched her tear apart the fresh carcasses and snuffle in the ribcages of her food. I smiled to see the blood run down her black fur, to see her lick away the little morsels of flesh stuck in between her incisors. After she had eaten, she would lie down under the shade of a large oak tree and sleep. Whilst she was sleeping, I liked to open the gate of the enclosing fence and walk towards her. Each day I got closer to her until one night, after I’d watched her for three long hours, she rolled over so that her back was facing me. I crept towards her. I knelt down quietly and lay beside her. Not quite touching her, but facing her back. I admired her strong limbs as they stretched out into the night. I knew then that I loved her. And I knew in my old heart what it was I most desired.
It would take some planning. Not many people would understand my desire, let alone enable it, so this was something that I needed to do alone. I set my plan in motion. First, I began to talk to her as I fed her. I wanted her to get used to the sound of my voice. I wanted her to associate my voice with pleasure. Secondly, I changed her food. The shoulders of goat and legs of lamb had been sufficient to keep her from being hungry, but I wanted her to enjoy her food. I wanted her to remember what it was like to draw blood and feel its fresh warmth spurt into her mouth.
The first time I watched her bring down a young goat and rip open its throat, I felt myself salivate. I could almost taste the tender, bloody flesh. As she tore the kid to pieces, I spoke to her, ‘That’s right, my love, rip it up, tear it up, feel its life gush down your throat.’ After her first live meal she looked up at me, her green eyes flashing a secret message of gratitude as she licked her lips.
The next meal was a calf. It was more difficult for her this time, she had to run faster and work harder. The calf kicked and did not go down easily, but go down it did. This time I moved out of my observation post and moved into her enclosure. I got as near as I dared, so near I could hear her teeth tearing into the muscles of the still moaning calf. My heart was racing, I moved a little closer. She picked up the calf by its neck and shook the remaining life out of it. I was splattered with its blood. I licked my lips and tasted the salty redness that splashed there. In all my sixty five years, I had never experienced a purer moment of bliss.
***
It has been over four weeks now and she knows me well enough to let me sit by her whilst she feasts. She knows that I love the blood, so she is especially vigorous when shaking her prey. Most nights I go home drenched in gore. Tonight will be different; tonight is the night when I will finally fulfil my desire. I take a look in the mirror in my bedroom. I look well for a man in his sixties and there is a special light in my eyes. I am naked but when I walk out of my expensive home, I know the servants will look the other way. I know that nobody will stop me because I am a wealthy and powerful man.
Tonight I will enter her enclosure and I will walk towards her with my arms open wide. I will kneel before her, close my eyes in supplication and I will wait for the blood to come.
For tonight my beautiful creature will have a much richer dish to feast upon.
No one can stop him tonight – not on his wedding night.
By Donna L Greenwood
The bride runs down the street, her wedding train glistening under the mad glare of the moon. She stumbles forward, trying not to fall or cut her feet on the hard, cold stones. Her mouth and eyes are wide with terror but another emotion is fastened to her face – anger. The bride knows she will find no sanctuary in this place – though curtains twitch and candles flicker – nobody will open their doors for her tonight.
He glides behind her – all polish and poise. His pale and delicate hands gesticulate in the night, conducting an orchestra only he can see. The Groom does not hurry for he knows his bride has nowhere to hide. He waves royally at the dark windows and smiles when huddled figures duck out of sight. No one can stop him tonight – not on his wedding night – it is his right to pursue what has been bound to him by the laws of God and man.
“Please!” screams the bride at the faceless houses, “For God’s sake, somebody help me!” A soft and distant echo of her own despair is the only answer to her plea.
Finally her strength bleeds out and she falls down defeated in the street. The Groom is upon her like lichen. He presses his face close to hers and he gulps down her breath and he licks off her skin and he drinks in her sweat and tears. He burrows inside her and he devours and devours until there is nothing left but bones and a blood-wet wedding dress.
As the early morning sun laces its insipid yellow fingers around the street, the townsfolk find a single red rose lying in the gutter where the bride’s body had been.
It isn’t long before some foolish girl, with dreams of romance in her heart, skips by and claims the red rose for her very own.
She heard a final wet exhalation as her husband died
By Donna L Greenwood
First published by The Fiction Pool November 2017
There was an awful lot of blood; that surprised her, as did the fulsome noise that was erupting from the flapping mouth of her husband – a sort of panting dog crossed with cow in labour. The red jets had stopped firing quite so furiously and the blood was now doing a slow pump from the jagged hole in his throat. Josephine looked at the splatters on the wall and ceiling. That would take some cleaning. The duvet would have to be thrown out, and the mattress too – the coagulating redness had soaked right through.
He was lying on his side – his hand stretched out towards her – pleading. She watched his mouth open and close like a landed fish. She frowned as a question formed in her mind. What is thirty-six multiplied by nine?
She was sat on the chair beside her dressing table. She had carefully placed the knife by her feet. Lying crumpled and defeated on the carpet were her husband’s over-starched shirts. By the sleeve of one of his shirts was a black boot. She knew that boot well. It had crushed small bones beneath it.
Eventually the gurgling moans began to quieten and her husband’s arm flopped wetly onto the bed. Little pink bubbles continued to froth around his mouth and his breath began to rattle. It sounded like the guttural purring of a cat and was strangely soothing.
What is thirty six multiplied by nine? She’d never been very good at mathematics and the answer was eluding her. She could do thirty six by ten, that was easy, but that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. She looked down at the white sleeve of her jersey top; it had tiny red splotches on it. For her wedding bouquet, she had wanted white lilies tied up with little red bows. The florist had been horrified. Apparently, lilies symbolised death – and red and white flowers should never, ever be placed together. They reminded people of blood and bandages, the florist had said. So Josephine had agreed to a sensible bouquet of blue peonies. Bloodied bandages would have been more fitting.
She looked at her hand and removed the ring that had been there for fifteen years. She slowly turned around so that she could see her reflection in the mirror. She silently mouthed her question. What is thirty six multiplied by nine? Josephine looked deeply into her own eyes and the answer came to her – three hundred and twenty four. She smiled and admired the way her cheekbones now had angular shadows sweeping across them. She had always been a little bit fat, but not anymore. Nine months at the gym had taken away her softness and so far, at thirty-six pounds per month, it had cost her three hundred and twenty four pounds. From behind her, she heard a final wet exhalation as her husband died. She nodded at her reflection. As it turned out, despite her initial misgivings, it had been money well spent.
Donna L Greenwood Author 
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