The Gorgeous Slaughter Read online

  THE GORGEOUS SLAUGHTER

  A novel

  Christina Hart

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Acknowledgments

  Also By Christina Hart

  About the Author

  The Gorgeous Slaughter

  Copyright © 2020 by Christina Hart

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Printed in the United States of America.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  ISBN: 9798679718234

  First Printing

  For those who’ve waited.

  One

  The exact moment I knew I loved Charlie was when he told me, “You matter, and that means something.” I sit in the cot and hug my knees to my chest and I rock. We are more. The itchy blanket is not warm, not cozy. The toilet on the other side of this small cell is not shiny porcelain, not clean. I hear his voice in my head and imagine how beautiful this all could have been had it not been infected with the poison that was Tracy Ellis. If our story had not been tainted with an antagonist disguised as an angel.

  Reset.

  Remove Tracy.

  Me and Charlie. Our love story. Our romance. We could have been happy if circumstance had played out in our favor. If fate wasn’t so cruel. If the stars had aligned, for once, to give us both what we deserved. If for once we could see anything past the darkness we’d both been living in. If we could just reach the light. We came so close. We could have been so much more than all the things Charlie thought we were not. We were meant to be together. We both knew that. I never invented it. Never drew up an imaginary scenario and planted us both in it. I never made this up. I run my fingers through my hair; it needs to be washed, but I pull at it. I feel it. It stings, but it’s real.

  I’m sure you’ve seen the headlines. “LOVE KILLS.” My name in the paper. My nickname, mainly. Love. It’s what most people call me. Lovina Landry: Stalker. Murderer. Love-obsessed freak. A danger to youth, to society. To herself. Some of the headlines were ruthless. Some were downright boring and unoriginal. “WHEN LOVE GOES TOO FAR.”

  Have you ever seen your name splattered in ink? Have you ever been tied to the murder of the girl who claimed the love of your life? Have you ever been victim to public outcries for justice? I have. I have loved someone so much I would do anything for them. I have crossed lines to find out exactly how far I was willing to go. At first, I tip-toed over them with a certain amount of grace. With charm. It was almost endearing the way I played with fire.

  My story is not full of peace and home videos of a picturesque childhood. It’s not full of joy and perfection and things that would make another girl jealous. My life is not something you wish you had. I am no Tracy, no prom queen. No girl who will ever have it all. But I came close. I did.

  I look at the walls around me that seem like they’re rotting. The smell of this place crawls up your nostrils and stays there. Lingers. Reminds you how disgusting it all is and I wonder who sat on this bed before me. It’s too small in here and I hate the feeling of being trapped. I want to leave. I want to leave. Please let me leave. I close my eyes and fight the urge to cry.

  How did I get here?

  I remember looking at the handcuffs on my wrists, the dried blood underneath my fingernails. Sitting in the cold chair in that cold room with that cold man across from me, casually sipping his warm coffee.

  “So were you a blonde or brunette when you planned it?” he asked.

  There was no malice in his tone. No accusation. No feelings in his eyes. Just a blunt question coming from a stone man.

  I had tilted my head back then, stared at the hideous ceiling. It was yellowing. Ghastly. The lights were too bright in there and I squinted. Counted to three. I moved my head back in his direction and looked at him, wondering how long we were going to play this game. “How do you do this for a living?”

  “How do you hurt people for fun?” he asked me.

  Reset.

  I open my eyes and stand up. I walk the full six steps I can take, and back again. I pace. I count. “One…two…three…”

  It’s an old trick I learned in just one of the many therapy sessions I’ve had. I learned something there. How to tame your demons. How to quiet them down, if only for a second. How to leash them. I never got further than that. I never mastered the method of locking them away in a place they could not reach you. I never did figure out how to make them shut up once and for all. And I pissed them off, too, in the trying. So I learned to live with them. I’d have nightly dinner parties with them, and we’d all reminisce about the shit we’d done and we’d laugh and laugh because none of us had it in us to cry anymore.

  The headlines flash back in my mind. “NO ONE MAKES IT OUT OF LOVE ALIVE.” I wonder if it’s true. If all the people I’d love were destined to live a life of heartache and violence. Were they all doomed? Was I?

  I imagine what people are saying. How they are connecting the dots, following the bouncing ball. The whispers in the halls. The echoes of the same words ricocheting off household walls in the evenings.

  Poor Tracy. She had everything.

  Such a bright future ahead of her.

  So much potential, wasted.

  What a shame.

  Kids today.

  Social media is so dangerous.

  That Love girl, she definitely did it. Just look at her past. All the times she’s been arrested before. She’s unstable. They should have kept her locked up the first time she went into a psych ward.

  Maybe I am. Maybe I’m unwell. But if I am, I never thought that was some sort of secret. It was never kept behind closed doors, swept under any rugs. The things I’ve done. The things I’ve gotten in trouble for. My misdemeanors and alleged crimes. But no one understood the reasons behind them. The cause and effect of each incident. The nature. The nurture. There were reasons, so many reasons. Reasons most people probably wouldn’t understand and wouldn’t try to understand. And I didn’t expect anyone to. Because unlike the rumors, I’m not delusional. I’m not some unstable
freak who stalks people. Okay, the “stalking” was not so much stalking as it was curiosity.

  It’s easy to find someone who wants you to find them. Someone who all but begs for it. But have you ever heard all the things people say about you? Have you ever started to believe them? Have you ever found yourself in a cell for a crime everyone tells you that you committed? I never thought I’d graduate high school and wind up here shortly after. Sometimes you cannot predict these things.

  Someone dies and everyone becomes interested in you. Everyone wants to question you, see the blood on your hands. They want a sneak peek inside your mind. A tour of sorts. They want to open up the curtains and let the light in first, but not before they have time to weigh the options. Not before they have time to decide if you’re a cold-blooded killer. They want to be sure first. No doubt. And they all need different things. Motive. Assurances. Facts. Details. They want to look in your eyes and decide if they trust you. They want to look in your eyes, like they could see the crime take place in your pupils. They want to be the judge on whether or not you are the kind of person who could do something so heinous.

  You’re probably wondering if I did it. If I killed Tracy. If I took the smile away from the girl who had everything going for her. If I stole the crown from the queen. If I was the last face she saw before she took her last delicate breath. If I’m the monster the articles will tell you I am. It’s the million-dollar question, what everyone wants to know, including me. Because I too wonder if I did it. I too have mouthed the accusations, the hisses, the hatred. I too have looked for motive. Assurances. Facts. Details. But unlike you, I am in the belly of the beast. Unlike you, I just may be the beast. Unlike you, I don’t need a tour inside my mind, don’t want one; I live here. And I live trying to escape it. I lie awake at night staring into nothing, silently shouting into a void for an answer. I’m not the praying kind, but I pray for an answer that may never come.

  Because I don’t know if I did it. Maybe I did.

  Two

  Let me take you back to the beginning. Before prison. Before Tracy. Before Charlie.

  “You better hurry! Butterflies have the kind of wings that could take them straight to heaven,” she said, smiling. She was always smiling. She was in the grass, sprawled out on her back, neck turned in my direction to keep an eye on me.

  “Mommy, she’s too fast!” I whined, chasing after the monarch butterfly as it soared through the air with little effort in front of me. Black, with yellow markings all over it. It was the biggest, most beautiful butterfly, and I had to have it. Something in my head screamed at me. Get it. Get it. Must have it.

  “You just turned six!” she called, rolling over on her side to watch me. “Six-year-olds are faster than butterflies, aren’t they?”

  “I’m not! I can’t catch her!”

  “Lovina Landry, don’t you ever say you can’t do something,” I heard my mother say, and there was a little scolding in her tone.

  The butterfly spun and took off in the other direction and I whirled around to follow it, arms outstretched, reaching, running. The hot summer day had a cool breeze and I felt my hair blowing behind me, grazing my shoulders every few seconds. The sun was glaringly bright that afternoon, and I squinted my eyes as I ran, trying to keep up.

  I chased that butterfly until it outran me. My little legs were no match for a creature with wings. It drifted higher and farther than my arms could reach and at some point, I knew it was hopeless. I gave up. I walked back toward my mom, defeated.

  “What happened, baby?” she asked.

  “It flew away from me. It was too fast.” I felt the familiar sting of tears behind my eyes and tried to hold them in. My lip started quivering like it always did when I tried not to cry.

  “Hey, look at me,” my mom said, grabbing my shoulders gently and looking into my eyes. “Sometimes things get away from us. It’s life. It happens. Sometimes you even have to let things go on purpose. But just do me a favor and remember this, okay? There will always be more butterflies to chase. There will always be something else right around the corner.”

  I nodded my head and sniffled. “But why would you let things go on purpose?”

  She wiped the tear forming at the corner of my eye. “Because sometimes things are bad to hold onto. Sometimes things are bad to keep to yourself. You might not understand this now, but one day, you will.”

  I nodded again, even though I didn’t understand.

  I’m still trying to understand. I think about that day a lot. The way the sun felt on my face, the way the breeze felt against my skin. The way my mother looked, lying in that vibrant green grass, her dark hair down and wild. The way she looked, healthy. Free. Without worry. I like to remember her like that. It’s a nicer memory than what would come later.

  It’s been years, and those words still ring in my ears.

  Because sometimes things are bad to hold onto. Sometimes things are bad to keep to yourself.

  I remind myself of this on the hard days and I try to practice this art of letting things go. It’s not as easy as it sounded coming from her lips. The way the words dripped out like honey. Her sweet voice softened the blow of just how impossible it could be.

  But she was right. There were more butterflies to chase, and chase I did. I caught one once, not really on purpose. A pale-yellow butterfly flew to me and perched itself on my knee one day when I was sitting outside in the yard, playing. I put my hand out and it crawled onto my finger where it stayed for a moment before flying away. I didn’t have this familiar urge to capture it, to keep it, to make it mine. And I didn’t understand. It came to me so easily. There was no trying, no chasing. No fun. And I took my mother’s advice. I let it go. And I watched it fly and fly and I wondered what flying would feel like. How good it must feel, knowing you could take off at any given moment and go wherever you wanted to go. Knowing you could visit heaven if you felt like it and then come right back to earth.

  Of course, I got older, and I realized butterflies couldn’t actually fly to heaven, but it was a nice thought. And I realized some things are hard to hold onto. I learned firsthand the way some things are terrible to keep to yourself, in yourself. Sometimes the things you keep to yourself will keep you. They will eat away at you from the inside out. And I think now that’s what she really meant, she just couldn’t say it to a six-year-old. She couldn’t look at her little girl and really warn her about what it means to be human and live in this world. She couldn’t tell me I couldn’t just fly away whenever I wanted, whenever I needed to escape something, whenever I needed to breathe. She couldn’t tell me I’d never be able to outrun myself.

  And eventually I stopped chasing butterflies. But I never stopped chasing after the things I wanted, the things that were a challenge to catch. It was my favorite pastime. A hobby. A sport. I saw something. I wanted it. I chased it. I got it. Point. Set. Match.

  And she was right about another thing, too. There are always more butterflies to chase. And sometimes they don’t need wings to fly. Sometimes they don’t need wings to get away from you.

  And I am still learning that my legs are no match for creatures with wings. I am still learning that my legs are no match for creatures who take flight.

  Three

  My parents, bless their hippie souls, named me Lovina. Well, my mother decided, and my father just kind of went along with it like he usually did. Avoid the argument, sometimes it’s smarter that way.

  My mother taught me a lot of things. She taught me how to fight, just not for the specific kinds of things I should fight for. She never pressed her forehead to mine and told me it was okay to say no. She never taught me that some men were eager, hungry. Cruel. Maybe she thought it was just something I had to learn on my own. Maybe she had to learn it on her own, too. But probably, it was because she never had the chance to.

  She taught me how to fight in other ways, though. How to not take shit from a stranger, even as a kid. How to put my fists up when someone bigger than me trie
d to push me. How to be kind to people. How to love the parts of others that they could not love themselves. She taught me entire worlds, entire universes, in the time I had with her. Maybe she never had time to teach me everything she was meant to.

  She died when I was eleven. I was on the cusp of growing up but still excited for Christmas morning. Still pretending to believe in Santa but knowing it wasn’t real. It happened suddenly then. Growing up. It took on a life of its own and I didn’t know who I was anymore. I didn’t know who I would be. I didn’t know who I belonged to. I didn’t know what was more or less important than what was before.

  The day we buried her was the last time I felt something resembling real. Six years ago. I walked up to the casket out of sheer force—I begged for it to be closed, but it was open—and I saw her eyes. Closed. The permanence in that final vision of my mother will never go away. Her dress was black. They had given her a straight-haired wig. But she had curly, unruly hair. It was not her.