SWEET HEART

I wanted to tear his heart out. Watch the scarlet blood squirt from severed arteries and carve trails like rivers down my hand. Feel the thick muscle squirm, pump, thump—until it ceased to beat. I wanted to sink my teeth into the rubbery organ. Shred it. Chew it. Take my time. Let the iron coat my tongue. Feel the warmth slide down my throat.

“So that’s me,” he said, snapping my attention back. He briefly touched the inside of my wrist, his touch as light as a butterfly’s wings, his head tilted. “What about you? What are you hoping to get out of this?”

I rubbed the place his fingers had been; it was set alight. 

“David,” I said as I leaned forward, elbows planted on the table, chin propped on clasped fingers. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

The waiter, dressed in a tailored black waistcoat over a white button-up, his neck adorned with a red bow tie, returned with our dishes balanced precariously on a silver tray: filet mignons bathed in melted rosemary butter that glistened in the orange glow of the glass chandelier above us.

“You had medium rare, yes?” the waiter asked, turned to David. 

“That’s right.”

“And blue…?” 

“Yes. Here,” I said, attention still on my date.

Strands of straight raven hair fell into his black eyes as he stared down at his dish. His eyes were round, like a doe’s, and framed by brown square glasses that swallowed his face. His pale skin looked soft. So soft. His cheeks were flushed, too hot in his navy suit jacket amidst the other bodies crowding the restaurant, their heat radiating into the air as if they were furnaces. Talking. Chewing. Hearts pumping. Straining against their ribs.

I blinked hard and dug my nails into my palms, trying to drown them out (drown out the curse). 

Once the waiter left, David poured wine into my glass. He swallowed; I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down, watched his delicate pink lips, as pink as a rabbit’s nose, spread into a smile that transformed his eyes into crescent moons.

“So you’re also looking for something serious?” he finally asked. 

“Of course,” I replied, picking up my knife and fork. “I know it’s not ideal to meet someone through a dating app, but I’m looking for a man with a good heart. I’m almost thirty, you know? I don’t have time to mess around anymore.”

“Cheers to that,” he said, then gave me an earnest look. “I’ve really enjoyed your company. I suppose”—he ran a hand through his hair—“I suppose I wanted to make sure we were on the same page. I don’t know… I guess I have a good feeling about you.”

“Me too,” I said, carving into the steak, ignoring the hunger pangs that burst forth as the bloody juices pooled onto the ceramic plate. I wanted to lick them. Slurp them. Knew they wouldn’t taste as good as his.

I ate enough to thwart suspicion, then tossed my black hair back and adjusted the strap of my red dress. My eyes flitted around the room, taking stock of the witnesses, before they settled on David again. David Perez, who should already be dead, another name on the long list broadcast during the evening news: Local person found with heart missing. But I’d made the mistake of holding back on our first date.

Before I knew it, one date had turned into two, three, and four.

David took a bite of his steak and chewed thoughtfully, his mind somewhere I wanted—needed—to reach. I had no choice but to eat, so to keep things fair, I followed one rule before every kill: there had to be a good reason. And there always was. It never took me more than one evening with a man or woman to find the reason the world wouldn’t miss their hearts. Too brash. Too gross. Too stupid. Too selfish. But David… David eluded me.

On the first date, he took me to see a laser show of my favorite musical artist. He stuttered, his cheeks aflame, as he answered every question I asked. He’d moved from the East Coast for a fresh start. Had a humble job. Didn’t have many friends and family here in the Pacific Northwest. The perfect victim, by all means. But then he asked me questions. Too many. What do you do for work? Do you like it? What do you do after? Does it bring you joy? Caught off guard, my tongue slipped into honesty, unaccustomed to forming lies for questions no one ever bothered to ask.

“Being a chemist is stressful, and it takes up most of my time,” I said, “but I used to love watching films and making art. I used to… I used to paint.” 

Danger. Danger. Danger.

Afterward, he sat with me on the train back home. 

“I want to make sure you get there safely,” he said, sitting with his hands clasped in his lap. And then, at my stop, he asked, “May I kiss your cheek?”

And I let him. And that was it. I watched him step back onto the train, headed in the direction we’d come from, my eyebrows raised. I went home hungry—starving—and waited for my phone to buzz with confirmation that he wanted to see me again (that he hadn’t figured out who I really was).

On the second date, he took me to a crowded aquarium. So many bodies full of pumping hearts. Yet it was his I trailed after, watching as he pointed out fish, animated when he spoke of every little thing they needed to survive. To thrive. Then he turned to me and said he dreamed of becoming a marine biologist, that he just needed time to find his footing after years of dead-end jobs and money spread too thin. 

I grinned at this. There it was. My reason: Makes excuses.

As I planned his death in my head, he asked, “What’s your dream, Adora? You’re an incredibly intelligent chemist, and that’s no small feat, but was being an artist your real dream?”

I flinched in response; my skin itched as if bugs crawled on it. 

“Dreams are luxuries few can afford,” is all I said.  

The bugs crawled and crawled all night. Distracted me. So I let him live. 

Danger. Danger. Danger.  

On the third date, we went to the movies. The scent of buttery popcorn filled my nose, tying my stomach in queasy knots. His clammy hand held mine in the theater. I felt his pulse the entire time. Fluttering. The only thing that got me through it. Once the movie ended, we stood in the watery sunlight that bathed the parking lot, prolonging our date—his life—with a discussion of the film. The characters. The meaning. What worked. What didn’t.

Next time, I thought that night, staring hard at my bedroom ceiling, the lights off, hands folded over my chest, waiting for his phone call. I’ll get him next time.

On our fourth date, we wandered through art galleries, speculating wildly about the people and things trapped forever inside the paintings. I laughed at his fascination with the ugly pieces. The scratchy, chaotic ones that made little sense.

“What? They have heart if you know how to look,” he mused.

When the sun began to set, he offered to take me home.

“I feel bad that you take the train each time,” he said, leaning out of his car window.

But I declined. I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist the impulse if he visited. Once he was a warm pile of flesh over—under—me, he’d be a goner. But I was exhausted from hours of walking, and I didn’t want to get sloppy.

Fifth date.

We finished dinner and took a stroll along the marina. Stars sat like freckles on a face up above, twinkling, half-hidden by the city lights burning against the skyline. Creatures splashed in the water, too fast to make out what they were, the only evidence of their presence the ripples they left behind. The boards groaned under our weight.

“So, Adora. You’ve lived in Franklin your whole life because your family’s here. But do you like this city? Have you ever thought of moving?”

His round eyes peered down at me from behind thick glasses. I could hear his blood coursing through his veins. My mouth watered, and my stomach clenched hard, threatening to bring up the steak.

I glanced over my shoulder. We were alone. I could end my suffering now. I’d slipped the knife from dinner into my purse. For David, I’d make sure it was quick and that he’d be found fast. A risk, yes, but worth it for him. One swipe to the jugular, and I could yank out his beating heart—satisfy the curse that plagued my family, inflicted by a force so ancient it had no name. Every six months, the craving grew impossible to ignore. And if I didn’t eat soon, I’d be in deep trouble. There was a reason no one before me had ever lasted this long.

“Leaving Franklin isn’t an option,” I finally said, voice thin. “It’s perfect for me.”

Because I know this place well enough to fool the local cops, I didn’t add, That certainty keeps me safe.  

I faced him. “What about you? Do you think you’ll stay in Franklin?”

He brushed my cheek with the back of his hand. “I found a reason to stay.”

I jerked my head away and clung to the railing. Hard. I stared at my reflection in the black water: sunken eyes and ashen skin. My stomach threw a hollow punch. My mouth went dry, my head woozy. 

“David… I really need to go,” I said. “It’s late—I need to go home.”

I stumbled toward the parking lot, regretting my choice of heels when my ankle twisted. Sharp pain raced up my leg. In a blink, he was beside me, his hand on my elbow, leading me straight to his car.

“Did it break?” he asked.

“No. No. Not even strained,” I whispered. “I’ll be fine.”

He opened his car door. “I still think we should go to a hospital…”

“No. No. Really, I can walk.” I put my weight on it to prove it, swallowing down agony.

“Okay. Fine.” He slipped off his navy jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “But I would still like to take you home.”

There was no way out of it. My ankle was screaming; I wouldn’t make it home on my own. I sat in his car with the window down, letting the night breeze cool my burning face, trying to ignore the sound of his heart. Sweet. I knew it would taste sweet.

He pulled into my neighborhood, deserted of cars and pedestrians. It was Friday night, and I lived in a college town. Most of my neighbors were off at parties or movies or studying at whichever local restaurant stayed open late.

David killed the engine. The car ticked as it cooled. We sat in silence, long enough for the windows to fog up. He fiddled with his thumbs, and when he opened his mouth, I stepped out, forcing myself to walk without a limp. But David glanced at my swollen ankle and stumbled after me.

“Lean on me,” he said. “I got you.”

We reached the door, and I fumbled in my purse for the keys, my body pressed against his sturdy one. His heat seeped into my bones. I could smell the salt on his skin. Hunger roared through me. I hurried to unlock the door. It opened into a dark corridor.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, stepping inside, dizzy.

He stayed outside, hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Of course.”

Leave, David. Leave now if you know what’s good for you, dammit.

“Adora, did I do or say something to upset you?”

“No,” I said. “Not at all. I’m just tired. Really.” 

Thick and gushing. Pumping. Crimson dribbling from the corners of my mouth.

I retreated into the dark, but he reached out and grabbed my hand. “Did I freak you out by admitting I liked you back there? I didn’t mean to rush you into making up your mind about me or anything…”

His fingers were warm. So warm. I tightened my grip.

Let go. Let him go.

Tangy copper. Bright-red hands. 

“Adora?” he whispered.

I opened my mouth to tell him to leave, but all I could think about was the heart beating beneath his ribs. Dessert.

I never wanted anything more.

I dragged him inside, the pain in my ankle forgotten. The thrill of the hunt sanded down all other emotions. The door slammed. His breathing was ragged.

“Adora, we can take things slow…”

I shoved him into the bedroom and onto the bed. I planted my knees on either side of his torso. He only looked up at me, dark eyes wide, glistening even without light. All I wanted was to extinguish it. 

My purse was next to me, the knife inside. When I reached for it, his hands found my waist and back, and he pulled me in. Close. Too close. I lay on top of him. He turned us onto our sides, my ear pressed to his chest.

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

He ran a hand through my hair. Pressure built behind my skull. My bones ached.

“I can’t be with you, David,” I said, fighting back the tears that blurred my vision. “I really can’t.” 

His hand stilled in my hair and he drew in a long, slow breath. 

“Oh,” he said softly, letting it out in one rush. 

I tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea rolled through me. I clutched his arm hard.

“Adora?” His hand found my forehead. “Jesus, you're burning up.”

When I started throwing up, he stayed. He stayed and brushed my hair back while I hurled into the toilet, my head hanging over the bowl, my knees pressed against the cold tiles. 

“You should go to a hospital,” he urged. 

But I waved his concerns away, and he insisted on staying while shivers racked my body. While I moaned in bed. He stayed and pulled the blankets up to my chest. He only slipped out once: to buy tea and vegetables for broth, which he helped me drink, holding my head up as I took sips. I thought they would make me sicker. They didn’t. I kept both down. 

Dawn poked its pink and orange head above the horizon, pushing hazy light through slitted blinds, and I lay on my mattress, a gutted fish, fever gone. 

Today, I thought. I’ll make him leave for good today.  

But when David came into the room with an ice pack for my ankle, when he placed a hand against my forehead to ensure my fever hadn’t returned, it wasn’t his heart I heard beating hard. 

It was mine.