valentine (flash fiction)
getting very romantic this year as you can see
tw: body horror, blood
Valentine
I am sending you a valentine.
Beating and pulsing and red.
The knife; chrome and turned over, my reflection winking in the mirror, tongue wiggling in my cheek. My face is distorted and long, uncanny to the person I've become in pursuit of you. The blade above my breast, moving along the curved edges of my body, sensually taking in the impending horror. Tears prick at the waterline of my eyes. I know it will hurt but oh, I’ve made my choice. I suspire shakily, repeating: love conquers all love conquers all love conquers—a whine escapes me, akin to the squealing of a pig who knows it’s up for slaughter. THE RITUAL HATH COMMENCED. As I dig the silver tool into my chest, pushing in and out, I sibilate; it’s like cutting into a soft loaf of bread.
I gasp. In ecstasy, in fear. My body has a mind of its own. It does whatever it wants now and this is what it hungers for. I comply, I give in to my fleshy desires, the things my skin craves. My body cries at the thought of you as I vow to give you everything I have.
It's a grotesque visualization. Gushing everywhere, ruby liquid spewing onto the kitchen counter, dripping off the sides and creating shallow, sticky pools on the floor. When the cutting is done, I oh-so-carefully peel back the top layer of skin and look! There she is, nestled in her crimson hole: my beating, blushing heart.
Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. She purrs for you.
I'm sorry for what I have to do, this is how things must be. I don’t make the rules, I just follow them—blindly. I plunge my hand into the bloody cavern, wailing at the pain. I slowly pull her out, careful to not squeeze too hard, with nothing but my heavy breathing reverberating off of empty walls. Irony drips. I could not feel more alive, despite the most integral organ dispatched from my very body. Devotion keeps me thrumming instead, a pink coyness coloring my cheeks.
I want you—I want you to have this. What could make a better gift than my very own heart?
A shiny box sits on the kitchen counter, managing to avoid the mess I've made. Biding its time with innocence, blissfully unaware of the gore that has ensued. It’s disgustingly festive and garnished with a coquettish ribbon.
It's perfect.
I gently lay my heart on the counter away from the box, making sure that the blood does not touch it. I meticulously wash my hands. The presentation of my gift is equally important as the thought behind it—I won't settle for anything less.
You deserve the best.
I returned to the side of the kitchen, ready for the final procedure. I take off the lid to the box, which is cavernous and cool, anticipating its purpose. I flatten flimsy red tissue paper onto the clean countertop. I scoop the still-beating, squirming thing with both of my palms, placing her into the middle of the paper. I diagonally cross the edges of the matching tissue, taping it down in the middle. Once covered, I deposit my sweet gift into its new habitat. A temporary home before she finds her way to you.
I verbalize my bittersweet goodbyes before I lay the lid back on top—before the lights go out. I do not hear her beat anymore and I know that it is done. Silence and love ring heavy, the bells clanging with a votive timbre.
