“Your cocoa skin against mine…Is all I need to help revive me…”
I’m dead and it’s all her fault. Oh, she didn’t actually murder me, but she knew it was dangerous. Well, that’s unfair. I was dying anyway. I had nothing to lose and she knew it. She was actually trying to help and I even agreed, but if I’d said no, I might have had a few more weeks or even months.
We met at a “Pagan Pride” event in Oak Park near Chicago. The place was actually pretty impressive compared to what I was used to. I’d just hit “the Windy City” and was staying at a cheap hotel wondering what I was going to do next. Kenadee had a little apartment on the South Side. She normally didn’t hook up with guys the same night she met them, but I have that affect on people.
Neither of us were exactly “pagan” people. They tend to be pretty nice and harmless, Crescent Moonies, Wiccans, and Heathens who pull together for local charities and social causes. I only went because they were having an open house and the food was free, plus they aren’t nearly as judgmental as churches, synagogues, and mosques.
She was there because being a witch, she had no other place to go for a social outlet plus she has a soft spot for puppies and they were having a fund raiser for the animal shelter.
What’s the line from that Bob Seger song? “I used her, she used me, but neither one cared.” That’s what we had together. I needed a place to stay, food to eat, sex, and drugs. She had a job, a place, a vagina, and money. She was also really lonely, which was pathetic, or I thought so at first.
Once I got connected, I started selling enough product on the side to keep us going above and beyond what she earned at her little job at the strip club (she served drinks, not her tits…it’s not like she didn’t have a good body, but at almost thirty, she couldn’t compete with the eighteen year olds). She couldn’t even get decent tips unless she let the clients feel up her abundant boobs.
Then I was diagnosed.
There’s a line from the “Deadpool” movie: “Cancer is only in my liver, lungs, prostate, and brain. All the things I can live without.”
Yeah, I was that fucked up.
We had enough green between the two of us for me to see the Doc but not enough to even begin to cover the cost of chemo. Anyway, the Doc said it was a long shot at best. I liked the Doc. She didn’t screw around. I mean she was nice about it and all, but no sappy sugar-coating. I was going to die and finally find out what goes on in the great beyond. I’m a pretty twisted guy, but the really twistiest part of me was kind of looking forward to Hell…for a second or so anyway.
Remember I said Kenadee is a witch. Yeah, a real one. Practices magic, spells, the works. Besides her creamy cocoa skin, those bright green eyes, and the insanely hot sex, that’s what attracts me to her, even now that I’m dead.
But I’m just a stiff and can’t get a boner anymore.
Anyway, Kenadee starts doing all kind of studying. Most girls when their boyfriend is dying of cancer would do research about new medical techniques, alternative treatments like what they have in Mexico and Sweden, and that sort of shit. She researched all kinds of healing spells.
That crap didn’t work. The potions tasted worse than shit (I know what shit tastes like…don’t ask), made me puke worse than chemo probably would have, and didn’t even get me high.
She sprinkled magic dust on me, waved her hands and said a bunch of words I couldn’t understand, dressed me up in amulets and feathers and surrounded me with candles on the floor of our bedroom, but nada tostada. Cancer was kicking my ass and taking names and black magic getting its ass handed back to it.
I was losing weight like a starving flood victim on crack. I couldn’t keep food down anymore, and about the only thing that I looked forward to was smoking weed my every waking moment.
That’s when she got out the knife. Well, it wasn’t knife like a kitchen knife or a carving knife. It was a ceremonial dagger. I tell you, she loved me a whole lot, because she had to rip off a really good friend to get it. Also, took what looked like really expensive spell books and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t recognize.
I asked how she managed to get away with all that and she told me to mind my own fucking business. She hated hurting friends, even for me.
I think that’s when I realized I loved her. No, I never told her. She thought I loved her all along. Kenadee’s romantic that way.
Anyway, she drew a big circle with chicken blood on the living room floor. It had to be big and that’s the biggest room in our dump (the super’s going to be pissed) and then used more blood to draw a pentagram inside (I didn’t ask how many chickens gave their all for the cause).
There were more candles. She was going for the “stroke of midnight thing.” I think it had something to do with one or both of us selling or at least leasing our souls, but most of the spell was in another language and I couldn’t figure it out.
Remember the dagger? Long, evil-looking, curved thing. Made out of silver with “runes” carved in the blade. She poured some potion over it, said some more magic words, and then sliced the palm of her right hand open. Then she sliced mine.
Kenadee said I couldn’t be loaded for this, so nothing to cut the pain. I was in pain enough as it was so what was a little more, right?
She pressed our palms together so our blood would mix. Then she laid on top of me. I forgot to mention that we were both naked, not that I could do anything about it at that point. There was still a part of me that thought it was kind of hot, but then I got nauseous again and just wanted the whole thing to be over. Really, if it didn’t work, I just wanted to die.
Ever hear the saying, “Be careful what you wish for?”
I said I wanted to die. Wish granted. I went into convulsions right underneath her and not the fun kind. I had nothing on my stomach so I only puked up yellow bile. Then I foamed at the mouth. Kenadee jumped off of me like I’d turned into a nest of rattlesnakes. I don’t know how long it lasted but it was too long for me.
Now I’m dead. Rest in peace.
Except I’m not dead. I mean, I’m talking to you, right?
Kenadee’s sitting just outside the circle sobbing. The candles are burning low but I guess that doesn’t matter to her now. She tries to talk to me every few minutes, probably to tell me she’s sorry and that she loves me, but she’s crying too hard and can’t get the words out.
If I could talk, I’d tell her I love her too and I know she did her best. I’d tell her she’s a good person and that she needs to move on. There are a lot better guys out there to cry over than me. Yeah, that’s what I’d say.
But then there’s a little voice inside of me saying to tell her to come here. Yeah, come here, baby. Get on top of me again. Our blood has merged but I need more. If you want to bring me back to life, you have to give me something first.
It’s like she can hear me.
“Yes…Baby…I’m coming.” She isn’t crying as hard but it’s still hard for her to talk. “I’m coming, Baby.”
She’s crawling back over to me on hands and knees, boobs swinging back and forth, hips swinging side to side. Here I am dead and all I can think about is sex. Well, that’s not right. All I can think of is sex and coming back to life.
The only problem is to do that, I have to take her’s. That’s the deal she made with you-know-who, only she wasn’t savvy enough with the language the spell was written in to figure that part out.
Kenadee lies on top of me and this time I do get an erection, big, hard, and nasty.
Now she’s going into convulsions. Mounds of flesh and supple curves start melting away like wax in a fireplace. She’ll be dead in less than a minute. Meanwhile, I’m starting to feel a whole lot better. I can even open my eyes. I hug her back as I watch the horrified expression on her face. Now she’s figured it out. We’ll never be together. Death will always separate us one way or another.
Yeah, death one way or another.
I told you that I loved her. That’s never happened to me before and I wasn’t sure what to do with it. I mean love does funny things to a guy and for as long as I can remember, the only person I’ve been out for is me.
Even knowing what’s about to happen, she holds onto me tighter. Kenadee is actually purposefully, willingly sacrificing her life for mine. I used to think that kind of thing was stupid and sad but now it’s like the most noble and courageous thing I’ve ever seen.
I can’t let her do it. I’d like to say that I learned to be as good as she is, but I’m still the same selfish bastard I’ve always been. I don’t want to grow even a tiny conscience and then have her on it for the rest of my life. I’ve never felt guilty about anything before, and believe me, if you had done half the shit I’ve done, you’d be drowning in the Lake Michigan of guilt.
“No.” My voice sounds like I’ve been swallowing sandpaper. “Get…off…”
I push her as hard as I can, but the life force or whatever you want to call it is about equal between us, which means she’s hanging onto me as much as I’m shoving to get her away.
Then I get stronger which means she gets weaker, but it’s the only way to fix this. I get strong enough to roll her off of me and back out of the pentagram. Then I roll myself back in and lie there. “Just take me, you fucker. Give me a personal guided tour of Hell you cock sucking bastard.”
Kenadee looks like she’s passed out. Good. She’ll miss the worst of it. I can feel everything including my bone marrow being sucked from me just as she starts filling out and looking more alive again.
I want to thank someone but God and I have never been on speaking terms so I let it pass. I’m just glad she’s the one who gets to live.
Yeah, Baby. “…Your cocoa skin against mine…Is all I need to help revive me…” But not this time. I love you too much for that. Be happy, Kenadee.
I wrote this for Simply Marquessa’s #LyricalFictionFriday writing challenge. The idea is to use the selected lyric or other lyrics from the same song to craft a poem, short story, or other creative work.
The lyric for January 18 is “Your cocoa skin against mine…Is all I need to help revive me…”.
Of course, when I read “revive me,” I thought of from death or near death. I had to give Kenadee “cocoa skin” to match the lyrics. Beyond that, I needed magic, the occult, and some pretty dark imagery.
There is an organized “pagan society” in the Chicago area, but I figured they wouldn’t like it if I used their name, so I only referred to them in general terms.
All of the magic stuff is totally made up so don’t bust my chops for lack of accuracy. I wasn’t even shooting for accurate.
My narrator for the most part is a really nasty person but I did allow him some slight bit of redemption so that he wouldn’t selfishly suck up Kenadee’s life force and send her soul to Hell. Of course, being a witch as well as a thief (and who knows exactly what she had to do to get all of those magic items from her friend), she doesn’t exactly qualify for Choir Girl of the year either, but maybe this experience will help her make some better decisions going forward.
She just needs to figure out what to do with the body first.