Hidden Bodies (You, #2)

by Caroline Kepnes

Love strokes me and cups my balls and I am her clay

my favorite meal, On-Cor Veal Parmigiana.

Tf

I see how it is possible to become infected with aspirations.

This “idea” is called The Third Twin.

LOL

It’s a special thing, when someone who can’t tell a story tries.

“I think you mean triplets,” I say. “There can’t be three twins, but there can be triplets.” “But that gives the whole plot away,” he gasps.

Not all messy people are geniuses. Some are just messy.

Already, I have violated Mr. Mooney’s advice. I am not getting my dick sucked.

I feel extremely sorry for Forty because without a time machine, he will never be happy.

Her voice is aloe vera.

The Californian refusal to accept that sometimes things just fucking suck—like

He tries to talk to me about her open mind in the sack but I tell him I don’t want to know about her lack of nerve endings.

I picture her alone in the middle of the night cutting her inner thighs, but it’s possible that I’m wrong,

And this, this is why you have to kill people. If you don’t, they don’t learn anything.

And this is how summer love crumples. How it deflates like a helium balloon in a hospital.

Monica sprays foundation onto her cheeks

Tf kind r u using m8?

Steve Miller Band through her Bluetooth. “Why Steve Miller Band?” I ask. “It seems so random, like someone passionately demanding a grilled chicken sandwich.”

“What’s up?” she asks. I can’t deal with her generic shit right now.

She doesn’t look back as we round the corner and her new jeans are so tight, I hope she gets a yeast infection.

I knew him best because I killed him.

It’s ending, our relationship, the applause.

Love licks her little lips, the ones that never met my cock.

I order a vodka double. No mixers. No time for that.

Fuck Love. Fuck love.

this is fucking. Rage mixed with sex

We don’t need an ocean out the window. We just need my forty-two-inch TV, my dick, my futon.

We both check our phones and we’re both still losers.

WHEN I wake up at five A.M. I’m still a loser,

She couldn’t be content to suck my dick and cheat on her not-a-boyfriend boyfriend.

“I know people,” she says. “No,” I remind her. “You fuck people.”

LA kills women. It’s a shame that Delilah moved here.

I grab her extensions and smash her head into the tub and that’s it. No more tears.

You can’t feel sorry for yourself. A lot of girls, they would have loved to be so pretty.

My body count in LA: one star and one star fucker.

All the things I should have done and we can’t go back in time.

I want to clean my dick and scrub my skin and start over.

I wish anyone with a brain would come and take over.

I lay the groundwork for my extermination.

If I want to kill the mouse, I have to lure him away from the house.

I’m relaxed just knowing that he’s going to be dead soon.

We have sex, missionary, it stinks of obligation.

“That’s just Milo stroking his dick and calling it a hand job.

“Why are we here? Why? Personally, I think Satan sent me here to fucking fuck shit up. The way God sent Love to love shit up.”

And this is what Love has: a brother. A nightmare. A coked-up maniac who is now jumping on his bed like a ten-year-old, telling me about a birthday party he and Love had as kids.

It’s true; cokeheads can be annoying, but they also have this knack for knocking you the hell out of your head.

He could be out there teaching kids to swim with his twin sister, but then, some people prefer hookers over poor children.

He is deflated, like a fat kid who just got told the Oreos are all gone.

I bet he got picked on but what they don’t want to tell you about bullying is that sometimes, the kid deserves it.

I love it when the facts are on my fucking side.

I feel his eyes burning into the back of my head, stronger and more cancer-causing than the sun above.