The New Flesh

I return home not to find my woman but, instead, cruel words scratched out on a single sheet of rosy stationery…

Dear Tabatha,

I’ve had fun but now the time has come to explore other alternatives. I’ve met a man and fallen in love with his large penis. I’ll admit you weren’t bad, when you slung the rubber, but there’s just nothing like the real thing, baby. Your suspicions were right about me all along. I did like ‘it’ a little too much. I missed the bawdy feel of a man’s hands and the brush of thick, sweaty hair during rough sex. You were just too soft and tender for me. In addition, your sex gear didn’t come with any extras, if you know what I mean. I don’t know how else to explain it. Other than, you just aren’t man enough for me. I’ll miss your seasoned tongue play, though. There were good times with you, and no one could ever replace the memories that we shared. However, a memory is like a double-edged sword. It’s a memory that has led me back down this path. I’m also into drugs and I’m pregnant with his baby.

Before, telling you the true nature of this dear Joan letter. I’ve taken your Bloodhound, Elvis, to the local pound. I didn’t want to leave him here with you. Elvis, like me, gets lonely. You never spent time with him. Dogs need lots of attention, and you spend your ‘down time’ working out or with that damn 1967 Chevy. You’ve clocked more hours under ‘her’ hood than mine. What person in their right mind chooses to tinker around with scraps of metal over a beautiful woman, ready for some serious loving? Let me ask you something. Has your precious car ever satisfied your womanly needs in the dead of night or early in the morning?

I couldn’t read anymore. I reckon when it rains; it tries to fucking strangle you. A man, I’d rather she’d left me for Elvis. The thought of a man touching her, twisted my heart until it was wrung bone dry of love. I wanted to kill her. However, why go for the kill when you can bring on the pain? Daniela didn’t know who she was fucking with, not yet. It was magick that brought her to me, and it’ll be magick that makes her pay for breaking my heart.

I rip her photograph from the gold frame and shove the letter inside the pocket of my worn Levis. Snatching the Urn of Delogus, I send a dozen of fresh cut roses sailing across the room. I make my way to the back of our bedroom closet. I pop out the hidden panel. Cobwebs finger my raven hair as I step across the threshold of my occult lair. Once inside, I encircle her picture with the silver and crimson Cord of Saturn, while reciting the binding chant of Delogus.

I light the Black Heart Candle, smoke smolders from the wick as a foul stench dances through the dimly lit room. I pick up the Urn of Delogus, detaching the lid, and elevate it high up into the nocturnal air. “I call forth Delogus, the bringer of corruption and hate. I ask that you fill your urn with the blood of evil and condemn her fate. Seal her heart and turn it cold, make her to never love again and grow lonely and old.”

I set the picture ablaze and pitch it inside the Urn of Delogus. “Now let’s just see, how much you love dick or anything else, for that matter. You’ll hate him and you’ll hate his child. You’ll hate everything and everyone for all eternity, once I burn this handwritten letter.” The scorching hate, I felt in the pit of my gut, sizzled down to a dying amber of disgust. If I’m going to go through with this, I’ll have to finish reading her letter to kindle my wrath before burning it.

By now, you’re probably pretty pissed. I hope you’ll, find it in your heart to, forgive me for what I have done. First, let me start by saying, I love you more than life its self. No one has ever made me feel the way that you do in the bedroom, the shower, outside in the garden, or…I think you get my point.

I do not love dick. I actually hate dick, unless you’re the driving force behind it. There’s no man, I don’t do drugs, and I’m not pregnant. I’d never take Elvis to the pound. I love your car. Not because it is a classic, but because it is the first place, we made love. Now with all that said. I don’t think the real purpose of this letter will be as bad as I’d thought that it would be. Then again, maybe it will.

Here goes, today when I was cleaning the garage, I accidentally knocked a can of paint onto the hood of your car. It put a pretty, mean ding in it. I didn’t know how to tell you. I may be wrong, but I don’t think it’s that big of a deal now. Especially, after you just found out, I haven’t done any of the things that you thought I did. I just wanted you to see that there were worse things that I could’ve done than, accidentally, denting the hood of your car. I'm at Judy’s, her number is on the frig, and your dinner is in the oven. When you cool down, give me a call.

All of my love forever,
Daniela

The Urn of Delgous quivers, the Black Heart Candle flickers and sparks spring forth from a lake of darkness. The stink of destruction swipes its finger under my nose. Fire licks at the flesh of my fingertips. Daniela’s words are reduced to ashes. Tears escape from my eyes as I realize, once ignited, the flames of vengeance aren’t so easily controlled.

"Heartless"

Copyright: © 2009 Donna Jean Lyons
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Donna Jean Lyons is a retired steelworker, who recently escaped a maximum-security women’s prison for the criminally insane. She was last spotted fleeing the secluded mountains of West Virginia, dragging behind her a freshly acquired girlfriend and being followed by her two tick-infested Hell Hounds. Her true whereabouts remain a mystery. Donna Jean’s uncensored stories have shown up in House of Horror, as well as a bloody tale in the anthology Creature Features. Her writing is forthcoming in issue #10 of The Monster Next Door.