Roger Bundridge is currently a senior at the University of Iowa obtaining his Bachelor's degree in English & Creative Writing. You can find him writing, or reading or watching, transgressive queer body horror anytime of the day. He lives with his partner and his Pitbull, Harley, who supplies soft snores while he writes.
BLEEDING BOX
by
Roger Bundrige
The chocolate between her teeth bled cherry guts over the edge of each lip. “You have got to be kidding me. The psycho bitch always had amazing taste in sweets. I remember once, after they ruined a date from having dinner with their mother, they took to me this cute little diner and bought me the richest milkshake possible.” She picked up another piece of chocolate from the assorted heart box and plopped it on her tongue, all while looking at the ceiling and avoiding the gaze of her roommate. “It had Reeses, chocolate ice cream, chocolate cake, fudge, and I couldn’t help but eat it all.”
“I’m so glad I was out of town.”
“It was well placed, though, you have to admit! The same time I discovered ‘dinner with mother’ was code for ‘having sex with their barber’, it all came back up. In their freshly cut hair.”
Chinmay laughed, snatching a piece of chocolate from across the counter and plopping it along his pierced tongue. “I remember the picture, don’t worry!” The jewel this month was a little black heart; it beat proudly against the fleshy pink. “What does the note say? It took everything in me not to read it when I brought it in from downstairs.”
The note. She had practically thrown it away. When the box was placed in her hand, she tossed the beige envelope to the ground with the intent of it landing in the cavernous mouth of the black trash bag in the black trash can. It was like a little pit in their kitchen; you couldn’t hear your discarded items scream.
The handwriting she knew too well stared up at her from the linoleum: hurried, desperate chicken scratch.
A drop of cherry leaked from her lips as she leaned forward. The jewel-like juice landed in the heart they made in place of dotting her i.
The envelope was harsh against her dry skin: the wind was really biting her on the walk to work with the changing of the seasons. She could feel the dent her name made in the paper. They must have done it this morning as a last ditch effort. Late to work. As usual. She bet they tossed it from their car window, even. Anything to simply not sleep alone anymore. Chinmay probably had a box of hearts in his room. He didn’t, obviously, but she wouldn’t put it past them.
“Where’s the letter opener?”
Chinmay pulled the little shiny tool from his back pocket. “I prepared myself for this moment as soon as I walked through the door.”
“You really do love my misery,” she laughed. “Give me that.”
“Oh? Misery? Honey, you’re reveling in this. This gets you so wet.” He shrugged with a small smile and placed it into her palm.
The paper sliced like a bad bread rising in the oven: a conglomeration of shredded edges that don’t bend but stiffen and stand like statues.
She recognized the card immediately. It filled her with a claustrophobic rage: her muscles pressed up against her skin, desperate to be free.
The pink polka dots were in the exact same spot, the words HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY in their aged cardstock and scrapbook paper printed material gave her the big ‘ol middle finger; the cartoon elephant on the cover, holding a big red heart out to her, had its eyes crossed out in black pen.
“What the…”
“What? Oh. Did that bitch- oh, this fucker DID! He regifted you the card from three years ago!” Chinmay gasped and clapped his hand to his mouth. “Okay, yeah, I’ll block him for good. Pass me another chocolate, please. That joint hit a little too well, not gonna lie.”
She slid the bleeding box across the countertop, too enraptured by the chocolate smudge she left in the bottom left corner over an on sale box of assorted chocolates. In their shitty apartment on the edge of the city, that was dinner. Along with a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches the two washed down with glasses of–almost–sour milk.
She opened the card as Chinmay broke the bottom of a chocolate open with the stud of his tongue and proceeded to slurp the juices out. Inside, their message from three years ago–long, tiny, barely eligible –had been scratched out. Beneath, the words I LOVE EVERY INCH OF YOU XX groped her eyeballs with its red ink. Beneath those words, in a jarringly different shade of red, were the words OUR FOREVER WILL BE DELICIOUS.
Chinmay’s head slipped from his palm and the hook of his chin slammed into the counter with a crunch and a gutting sound, the ripping of meat. He screamed an inarticulate scream that was quickly cut off by an inhalation that brought in no air. Chinmay was choking, but she couldn’t move. Her head had snapped up, but all she was doing was staring at him. Even when the hand came out, half of Chinmay’s tongue falling out with the pressure of the reaching fingers, she couldn’t move.
When a hand broke through the muscle of her thigh, it was even more difficult. She looked down and let out a sound between gasp and scream. The ripping of flesh felt like velcro peeling away from the skin. She dropped the envelope and fell to the ground. Shoulders pushed out from her thigh and Chinmay’s throat until their skin was peeling apart like apples and the fingers were clasping onto each other.
They molded together like clay and grew before the sun, covered in viscera and delicious memories. They put each finger to their lips, sucked, and picked up the rest of the chocolates. Their bleeding body was complete before sundown.