Tastes Like Candy 2: Sugarless

by Ivy Tholen

I still wanted to take a knife and peel my mom’s face like a lemon and spray vinegar on the remaining bloody flesh.

“Would you prefer we sell this place and live in a cheap ass gingerbread house in Old Belldam? Or worse, Pelly?”

Everything was black. The camera swung around wildly, sometimes hitting on blobs of light, but never enough to light the scene.

“You butchered them!” A desperate voice cried out from my phone. “How are you not drenched in blood?” “I brought extra clothes,” said a second girl.

He pulled his cap low. Black stitching reading XYLOPHONE MAN 2018 covered his eyes. “Goddamn kids. Beans in chili.”

Six accounts had liked the post: @acidnotwater, @circuspeanuts420, @lollybishopscrush, @clownmouthkelley, @cottoncandyhead, and @axeuaquestion. I tapped on each one. They were all blank and only followed each other and @ferriswheelflyer.

“I’m checking them for ripeness!” I screeched as they pulled me into the back. “Next up, tomatoes!”

She sent me a gif. Three animated clowns juggled fruit against a polka dot background. One clown caught an apple, the camera zoomed in on him; he took a bite and smiled. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” I asked myself aloud.

Don’t mess with fucking Texas.

Back walls leaned inward, black curtains crumpled on the ground, and a lone Paulie’s Pop-A-Corn cart stood in the center of it all, looking as shiny and new as it had when the owner parked it.

I allowed myself two cute kiddie bandages, one on my left ring finger and one on my right pinky. I examined my hands. Bonnie Blue—a little cherub cheeked babydoll cartoon—smiled at me from a blue and white polka dotted bandage background.

“If there’s an accident, and this car is involved, would you rather be inside it or under it?” “What about the person in the car under it?” I asked. “What happens to them?” She shrugged. “They should’ve had the money to buy a Range Rover,” she said, giggling. I can’t believe I get to drown her.

But really, the point of no return had been hours earlier with my mother. I wasn’t prepping myself to become a killer, I already was one, and the adrenaline surging through my body told me I liked it, even if my brain wanted to talk me off the ledge.

They’d be dead soon, and dead girls tell no tales.

“Sweets for the sweet,” I chuckled. Oh God, am I the most cliche killer ever? Sweets for the sweet? What the fuck is that? This is why all the killers in movies are silent.

“What kind of place has a peacock mascot?” I smiled. It was the first thing she’d asked when she met me. “The same kind that still has a neighborhood video store in the ‘20s,” I said, pointing at a Funt Me Video button.

BLYTHE LENNON You’re gonna need a bigger boat.

“So are you Jenny?” Oliver asked. “No,” the man said. “Wait. What?” “Your store is called Jenny’s,” Sutton said. “Is Jenny the owner?” “No. Jenny is dead.” Sutton gasped. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” “It happened in 1998. I’ve dealt with it. She was a good friend, good enough to put on my sign out front. I’m Josh. The owner.”

A phone buzzed, and Josh took a second to realize it was his before pulling it out of his pocket. He checked the screen, jokingly rolled his eyes, and said, “I gotta take this. Good luck.” “Thanks,” Nico said. She walked toward the door, her eyes glassy, her face blank. Oliver followed her and helped steer her back on track when she veered into a rack of sheet music. Sutton waved goodbye. Josh waved back as he answered his phone. “Hey Ginny,” he said, “What’s up?”

“So Senior Scavenge Slaughter happens.” I smiled. “Gross thing to call it, but sure.” I appreciated the darkly humorous twist the conversation was taking.