On the third anniversary of Tanya’s death, Beth cooks me breakfast. She scrambles some eggs and fries some bacon, sticks some bread in the toaster. She puts on a pot of coffee and fills my mug to the brim, adding a splash of cream and one pack of sugar. She places the spread down in front of me, at our little kitchen table, smiling and pushing her glasses up the brim of her nose, like she always does when she’s nervous.
“Thank you, Beth,” I say. “This looks delicious.”
Beth exhales, an obvious weight seeming to drop from her shoulders. She tends to be anxious, a spring wound far too tight, but today the nervous energy seems to palpitate from her in waves. Beth beams and nods.
“Of course. I’m glad you like it. I know today is… tough.”
Tough. It’s one word for it. They say that the first serious breakup is the hardest, and maybe that’s true. Coupled with my first serious loss, Tanya’s death left with me a jaded, forlorn, broken shell of the man I used to be. It’s weird, how grief works. It’s rumored to happen in stages, bargaining and anger and acceptance and shit like that, but true grief is an ensemble of all of those and more, in mixed up and fucked up orders that left me nearly inoperable for a year.
That was, until I met Beth. Sweet Beth from the supermarket, with the hazel eyes and the cat-eyed glasses that take up half her face. Beth likes hiking and baking and obscure IPAs. Careful Beth, who knows she can never fill Tanya’s shoes, but loves me all the same. And I love her. And when I’m with here, things feel… okay again.
And I think Tanya would be alright with that.
I can tell Beth has something on her mind, the way she shifts her weight from side to side, bounces on her toes. Its one of the most endearing things about her, the way her feelings are not only constantly plastered across her face, but her body as well.
“Beth,” I laugh. “What’s on your mind?”
Beth’s eyes are wide over the rim of her coffee mug.
“Well… I was thinking. And I’ve got an idea. For today. If you think you might be interested.”
On the last two anniversary’s of Tanya’s death, I’ve stayed home. Cued up the Xbox and cracked open a beer or two, made it solely my mission to get through the next twenty four hours without dissociating around the house and upchucking in the toilet. Can’t imagine anything better to do.
Beth fills in the silence.
“Well, I, um, went to Micheal’s the other day. Picked up some scrapbooking stuff. You…”
Beth glances around my barren kitchen.
“You don’t have many pictures around. Of Tanya. I figured we could spend some time scrapbooking today, ya know. So I, uh…”
Her voice trails off. Beth looks at her feet.
“I printed out some pictures, ya know, from Facebook and Instagram. Maybe we could document some nice memories. Maybe it’d be nice.” Her voice has a little warble to it.
I chalked up scrapbooking to a child’s pastime, that or a mom of four when she has time on her hands. Not a twenty-six year old man still nursing the loss of his dead girlfriend through alcohol and a copious amount of Call of Duty. But Beth looks excited, and the sentiment is sweet, and… I’ve got nothing better to do anyways. So I muster a smile and blink back sudden a tear or two.
“That sounds nice, Beth. Let’s do it.”
She breaks into a grin and gestures for me to get up. I follow her to the living room. It’s obvious she wasn’t messing around. The table is adorn with supplies, markers and colored construction paper and glitter pens and ribbons. There’s these little foam hearts and stickers. Beth’s already plugged in a hot glue gun, and I can feel the heat wafting from the other side of the room. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of burnt glue and Sharpie ink.
“Jeez, Beth,” I chuckle, running a hand through my hair. “What, did you buy out their entire stock?”
Beth smiles and pushes up her glasses once more. “Well, I wanted to make it special. We don’t have to use everything. And besides, you know I can always find a use for glitter glue.” She sits down at the table, beckoning me to join her. I pull up a chair next to her as she picks up a large stack of photos. My stomach jolts at the first one.
It’s Tanya and I, at an amusement park. She loved Six Flags, loved the chaos and excitement of nearly anything with a thrill. She has her arm slung around my neck, curly brown hair draping over my chest as she grins at the camera.
Beth flips to the next photograph. It’s Tanya at that diner we used to go to on Saturday nights after smoking a joint or two. Tanya’s smiling around a mouthful of pancakes. Her sharp blue eyes seem to catch the flash of the photograph, despite being tickled with red, courtesy of some higher quality weed I’d managed to pick up the night before.
Beth sighs. “This is cute.”
In a comfortable silence, we begin the process, gluing photos onto colorful pages, adding stickers and captions. I can’t help but add context to every picture we come across, settling into my memories as I tell Beth stories. Stories of Tanya and I. I talk about our shenanigans, our first date, when I first met her parents and spilled a bowl of chili on my crotch, and when she drank me under the table at that one time at that shitty dive bar in my hometown. Beth listens attentively, nodding and giggling at all the right times, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder when words felt hard to come by. It felt… nice. Maybe even therapeutic. I don’t realize that I’m truly crying until a tear slips from my eyes right as Beth picks up the next photograph, staining the image, the image of…
Tanya. But it’s an unusual one. Tanya in her fourth floor apartment, changing after a shower. The picture is taken from from outside the window, lopsided, as if shot from uneven terrain. It’s grainy and poorly lit. My heart stalls in my chest. Beth raises her eyebrows.
“What’s this one, Jason?”
“Christ.” My eyes feel glued to the photograph. “Jesus, uh, I don’t know. I don’t know why that’s there.”
Beth shrugs, and flips to the next photo. It’s a screenshot of a text message exchange. The recipient is merely labeled as “J”.
Jason, im at work. you can’t fucking call me rn. stop.
We need to talk.
we already talked. STOP. im going to block ur number.
Block my fuckin number and I swear to god Tanya
r u threatening me?
No, im telling you not to block mh fucking number
*my
leave me alone jfc
I glance up from the picture and turn towards Beth, who’s already looking at me. There’s something in her eyes I cannot place. She doesn’t look surprised, or scared, or even anxious, and Beth is always anxious, so –
“Beth,” I choke, “where did you find this?”
Beth doesn’t answer. Merely flips to the next picture. It’s another series of text messages.
Why are you not picking up.
you fucking know why. stop, NOW, before i call the cops
You wouldn’t you fucking bitch. We need to talk.
im DONE with you. please. enough.
im fr gonna block u rn
goodbye jason. seriously.
Block me I fucking dare you.
Tanya.
Answer the phone jesus christ
Tanya
Tanya
Tanya
Tanya
Tanya
Tanya
Tanya
TANYA
Pick up before i fucking kill you you FUCKING BITCH
Tanya plz
I glance up from the picture again. Beth is… smiling. She looks macabre, behind her cat-eyed glasses. Beth smiles a lot. When she watches videos of war vets coming home to their dogs, and when her favorite characters finally admit their feelings for each other on Grey’s Anatomy, or when I tell her how much I love her cooking or the elaborate blanket she quilted me for my birthday.
But this time around it’s different. Like Beth’s got the in on some joke I don’t know. Like she’s seeing my fear and feeding off of it, leaching my discomfort. It’s uncanny. It’s terrifying.
“Beth, what the fuck is this?”
“What,” she drawls, “this can’t go in the scrapbook too? Memories, c’mon.” She flips to the next picture, and I nearly gag, slapping my hand over my mouth.
It’s Tanya’s dog. Or, what was left of Tanya’s dog, after I disemboweled it and sent it to her in the mail. I recognize the wrapping paper I had bought from the hardware store. The bloodsoaked pink collar I left around its neck. I had tried to skin it, but gave up halfway through, and the dog was a mess, furry in some places, merely muscle and tendons in others.
It seemed like a good idea, at the time. After Tanya blocked me, and the texts weren’t going through, and the letters weren’t received, and she wasn’t staying at her fucking house anymore, she didn’t tell me where she was going, but her car wasn’t in her driveway, and –
Beth sighs, as if I’m a kid who just colored on the wall or threw my dinner.
“Really a shame you had to go after her dog. Dog didn’t do anything to you. Nicest dog I’ve ever met, by a longshot. Called her Chrissy, ‘cause of that one show Tanya was obsessed with. I hear it’s still running, that show? Imagine how much Ellen whats-her-face gets paid per episode.”
I shake my head wildly. “You – you didn’t know Tanya’s dog. You didn’t know Tanya.”
Beth laughs. It’s choked and morbid, like someone was making her watch standup comedy at gunpoint.
“Of course I knew Tanya, you fucking idiot. Why else would I be dating you? Not for your good looks or charming disposition, that’s for sure.” Her voice rises with each word, as she leans back in her chair and grins.
I flinch at her words. I’ve never heard Beth swear. Hell, I’ve never heard Beth raise her voice. Now, it’s like she’s a different person altogether. The nervous tap is gone from her foot, the tension in her shoulders has deflated.
“Let’s keep looking, Jason.” I freeze in my seat. I should get up. I should leave, even if it’s my own house. I should kill Beth, I should –
“Ah, look at this one!” Beth holds it up as if its trophy. “How cute is this?”
Tanya in the trunk of my car. I’d stuck a balled up pair of socks in her mouth, bound her legs and wrists with duct tape. An average, commercial kidnapping, but one that I remember being proud of. The fear in her eyes. The tears rolling down her cheeks. The way I blocked out her muffled cries with Black Shelton blasting on the radio as I winded down the backroads of my old hometown.
Tanya hated country music.
“Oh, and this one!” Beth places last picture aside, in place of…
“Maybe a better detective than the shit Mystery Incorporated we have in this hick country would have figured it out. Checked the footage the day you bought that duct tape. Matched the tread of your car to the cracks by the guardrail. Done, hell, I don’t know, literally anything other than label it a cold case and move on, after one stupid interview and a DNA test.”
It’s Tanya’s body, the day they finally fished it out of the river. Her curly brown hair is plastered to her blue face, lips parted, eyes open and bloodshot. The bruising around her neck is still visible, but sort of blends into the pale blue translucence of her skin. Her t-shirt clings to her chest. She’s still got her shoes on, her crocs. She’d bought us matching pairs for Christmas, called it cute.
“I didn’t kill Tanya,” I sputter. “I did not. I loved Tanya. Love, Tanya.”
“Jason, stop,” Beth says. She gives the picture a once over again. “Don’t act like you didn’t love it. Probably got you off, too, you sick perv.”
“Beth, please.” I know my voice is growing desperate. I wrack my brain for a solution, anything to keep this secret between us. I could beg. I could also kill Beth. I could try to bribe her. I could also kill Beth. I can stand by my innocence and maintain that this, all of this, is one sick attempt to frame me for murder. I could also kill Beth.
I could also kill Beth.
I grab a pair of scissors from the table, and go to swing, aiming for her neck as her eyes widen. I expect her to scream, have my other hand ready to cover her mouth, but –
Beth’s slender hand wraps around my wrist, and with a sickening pop, I feel something shift out of place, followed by an intense measure of pain shooting up my arm. I drop the scissors, screaming and grasping onto my injured forearm. Out the corner of my eye, Beth is grabbing something off the table.
I stand up, scrambling around for something to defend myself with. A page of stickers – no good. Foam hears won’t do the trick, either. My eyes land on the ribbon, and I grab it from the table, unraveling a generous strip. Beth laughs.
“What’re you gonna do, strangle me with ribbon?”
Well, I’m going to fucking try.
I lunge towards her, extending my arms, when her foot jams into my torso so hard I lose the rhythm of my breath, wind knocked out of me as I tumble onto the ground. Suddenly, Beth is straddling me, thighs clamped around my waist with an iron grip, wielding a –
Shit.
Wielding the hot glue gun. Smoke trickles from its top.
“You gotta shut up, J,” Beth mumbles. “Won’t kill you to listen, every once in a while.”
I writhe on the floor as one hand reaches towards my face. I flinch, and Beth hushes me, smoothing out my hair and stroking my cheek. She hovers above me, blue eyes filled with… pity.
“Oh, Jason. I’m sorry, honey.”
And with that, Beth takes a hold of my hair and lifts my head an inch or two of the ground, before slamming it back down again, holding it against the floor. Her other hand brings the glue gun to my face. I scream, loud, and Beth frowns, before beginning to smear the glue across my lips, in a lazy, languorous fashion, as if she were a child haphazardly gluing together a school project the night before its due. I open my mouth wider to scream, but this turns out to be a mistake, as the glue drips onto my tongue and teeth. It’s thick and seems nearly fucking boiling, as it scalds my tongue. A drop lands at the back of my throat, where it lodges. The obstruction has me panicking, clamping my mouth shut and taking short, wheezy breaths through my nose.
“Atta boy,” Beth says. “Much easier.”
The smell of my burning flesh has rancid vomit rising up my throat, vomit that I swallow back down in favor of preserving my airway. Finally, Beth pulls the glue gun away. I open my mouth to scream again, but no words come out. It’s a thick, heavy, steaming layer of hot glue over my lips, welding them shut. My screams are trapped in my throat, and I can only merely groan, hands running over my mouth.
Beth gets up. I do too, wavering on my feet before she gently pushes me back into my chair. Her glasses have gone askew in the shuffle, and she pushes them up her nose. I try to cough the drop of glue out of my throat, but it’s in vain, catching on my sealed lips. I feel dizzy from the pain. The only thing I can smell is the melted flesh of my lips, a mere centimeter down from my nose. My legs and arms feel like jelly. My mind feels like a plate of scrambled eggs.
“This one’s cute,” Beth says, flipping to the next photograph. “What is this, Disney World?”
We flip through the photographs, and I nod and shake my head at Beth’s questions.
“Oh, cute! Did you guys like skiing?” Yes.
“Tanya’s brother’s an actor, right?” No. “Oh, yeah, that’s her sister. You went to her play, right?” Yes.
“Ooh, I love this ice cream shop. Her favorite flavor was strawberry.” Yes.
We finish the scrapbook. Beth puts the scrap paper in the recycling, unplugs the hot glue gun and wraps the cord around it. She rolls up the ribbon and puts the rest of the foam hearts in a plastic baggie. When the mess is clean, she glances at me, still sitting stoically, nearly catatonic in my chair.
“Shit!” she yells, and I flinch. “Fuck, we’re gonna miss Grey’s. C’mon, J.”
Beth pulls me from my seat and to my bedroom, where I set up my TV. She turns it on and starts flicking through the channels. She turns towards me as she cues up her show. Her eyes are very hazel.
“I think Tanya would’ve liked it, don’t you?”
The glue has cooled around my lips, but still simmers. I blink back my tears and attempt to smile.
Yes.