Steve and I digitally acquainted through Tinder. His pictures were nothing but average. Shirtless mirror selfies, flexing unremarkable biceps with posters of half-naked chicks in the background. But I gave him a chance after reading his bio. A community theatre actor with a dream of being on Broadway. A dreamer. I like to be stolen from reality. That’s why I’m a painter. I bring my dreams to life with the flick of a brush.
Our first date at the pizza restaurant around the corner was nothing shy of cute. He wore a plaid shirt with a bow tie and struggled to tuck his napkin in, so instead smoothed it out on his lap. He took modest bites and sips of soda. I knew in those simple moments, I was growing to like him. And not just to forget my troubles for a little while. It wasn’t the fizz talking or the smell of barbecue chicken sauce titillating my senses, either. It was the pure joy I got. From small talk brought up by casually mentioning his time as the understudy of Bobby in Company from last year’s production downtown to the way he pulled my chair out and pushed it back in when I got up to use the restroom.
After the date, he kissed my cheek. But that’s not all either of us wanted. So we went back to his place and, well, had rough sex.
It was nice.
Then, we lied bare under the stark white covers and pillow talked.
“Anything different you want next time?” he asked. I was slightly surprised he was as into me as I was him. There was a balance I wasn’t quite used to.
“Hmm, yeah. Maybe pull my hair.” I shushed myself with a finger to my lips. “O-Only if you want to.” He chuckled and nodded.
“You got it.” I turned over on my side, smiling into his tundra eyes.
“What about you? Got any kinks, fetishes?” He swallowed hard, suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s—It’s fine if you don’t have any. It’s totally ok if you don’t have any. I mean…“ I cut myself off and chewed my lip, embarrassed.
“No worries.” He ogled me like one of the models on his wall, even though I was in no league of theirs. But he told me otherwise. “You know, you are the prettiest girl I have ever seen.” I was blushing even harder than before.
“Really?” I giggled.
“Yes. The prettiest girl I have ever seen.” He sighed out his nose, eyes narrowing and jaw jutting slightly, then rolled over on his back.
“Is something wrong?”
“Yeah. There’s just one problem.” I braced myself for the worst.
“What is it?”
“You would be even prettier if you were dead.”
Silence hung in the air. I couldn’t feel my heartbeat. I felt light and empty, almost inhuman.
He reached for the drawer, presumably grabbing another condom, and I halted his arm with a squeeze.
“No, please d—”
I was out like a light and woke up to my nose completely caved, hyperventilating through strings of blood. He had bludgeoned me with a hammer several times, then tied me up in his basement.
Once my eyes adjusted to the light, I could make out my shoes. Surrounded by stuffing?
To my left, a couch where girls like me sat, posed like models. A pretty blonde in a bikini on her knees smothered in makeup. Lifeless and stuffed, sew lines covering her body, fuzz poking through broken skin. A gorgeous brunette with a fashionable French bob propped holding a cigarette to her cold, pale lips. A woman with ginger hair and freckles dressed in a long white robe with wide blue eyes and glued puckered lips blowing a kiss to the air.
And to my right, a shelf of jars with their insides.
Luckily, he left sharp tools on the middle shelf, including my bloody hammer. And I can untie a cherry stem with my tongue. The knots were easy as pie for my busy hands.
As soon as I heard him headed for the stairs, I knew I would need something far more reliable than a rusty old hammer with bits of me on it.
The machete worked miracles. His face was far more mangled than mine ever could have been with a hammer. Hell, his entire naked body was unrecognizable.
I made it out alive.
But I will never be as pretty as I was.
I was proclaimed a hero. I was followed, harassed with animated positivity. But what I treasure most are visits paid by the victims’ families, being thanked profusely, hugged, and cried upon.
There’s no way to live out your dreams when you’re trapped in a nightmare.
All I can paint is Steve in his perfection. And he’s all I can think about.
Is it unusual that I miss him?