Page 29 of The Cannibal

I crouched even as my teeth were still latched, the blood spilling over my chest and sputtering across both of our faces. Then most of it came back up and I was forced to let him go. I coughed and spit, splattering against the cobblestones and painting the white azaleas.

I heaved, struggling to catch my breath. My hands shook as they pressed against the ground, the blood filing neatly between the bricks of the walkway as it spread.

No one was around.

I placed my hand on his chest, shaking him.

“I’m sorry,” I sniffled. “Please—oh, God,” I bit my lip.

His body slowed its twitching to a halt. His eyes wide open to the sky. Dead.

And it was my fault.

I stumbled through the staff exit.

There were extra bags of dirt, stacks of buckets, then my saving grace—a garden hose.

The water ran clear when I cranked the spigot. With my hand, I scooped water and wiped my face, my chest—thank goodness the dress was a dark shade of green, or else the blood may have left an obvious stain.

My fingers rubbed my ears and between my breasts to leave no crevice unwashed as I fought the drying of the blood.

A high-pitched screech from inside.

I walked quickly around the corner, heading to the front of the building. Visitors walked in couples or in groups as they marveled at the fountains. The splashing was still nauseating me.

Like ants to honey, one by one the crowd began to move toward the greenhouse, some coming back outside to report to their families what they’d seen.

Soon the subtle murmurs turned to clamor, then havoc.

The staff corralled the visitors out of the botanical gardens, giving no other explanation than they were regrettably closing for the day.

I was frozen in place. Should I leave? Would it be suspicious if I was the only one not wanting to find out what the scandal was? It could be too dangerous to stay, but I don’t think I could keep my wits up enough to look unassuming.

I refrained from touching my dress, in fear the stain would show on my hands. My trembling hands forced themselves into the black gloves, fingers getting stuck and caught as I pulled.

The tin wail of a siren just outside the park. It could be for anything, but I knew it was for me. For what I’d done. The crowd became a restless mob, demanding to know what interrupted their tourism.

They fell quiet when the rubber boots came marching in, the white-gloved men eased us back, marking off the entrance.

All I had to do was be still.

Something tugged at my skirts.

My eyes shot down to the ground. The little girl from before had grabbed my skirt to steady herself as she peered between the spectators.

All I could focus on was her little hand.

Balled up in my dress.

And the red stain that she would see on her palm next.

I couldn’t stay.

The policeman was walking down the line.

She must have felt it, the stickiness on her fingers. I watched as her little hand left the cloth and she went to look.

I grabbed her hand and looked up; the policeman had glanced at us, just not long enough to see.