No, You Hang Up

by A.J. Merlin

Is this not going how you thought it would, rabbit? Tell you what. I can just move past asking what it is you think I drive. I mean, who needs to, right?” There’s a momentary pause. “After all, I’m standing right in front of my car.”

“Then I’ll slit your vocal chords and fuck your mouth while you bleed out in the grass.”

“What? You think I can’t save lives if I also take them? I’ll have you know I’ve never, ever murdered anyone I saved. That would be against, like, the universal moral code.”

“You’ll know I marked you here, and that you’re mine. No matter who else fucks you, you’ll always be mine.”

“So good for me, you know that? Fuck, maybe God finally loves me for something, or I’ve pleased the devil enough for him to have sent you to me. You were made for me, weren’t you? Made to be fucked like I own you.”

Huxley exists at night, not during the day. In some ways, he’s like some creature of myth, or horrific folklore. If he were to exist in the daytime, then⁠—

“I’m a serial killer.”

“I got that, thanks.” “You sure are bold with me.” “How many murders does it take to become a serial killer, anyway?”

“I knew right then you were mine. And I don’t think I can get you to admit it right now,

“I’m going to make you regret being so fucking addicting.”