Love is a Knife in the Heart

You know what they say, love is letting someone else wear your skin. 

Transcript

You remind yourself that it’s the thought that counts when you open up your Valentine’s Day present. It’s what you’d suspected it would be, and what you’d tried to hint that you didn’t want. It’s 
a copy of your favorite stuffed dog from when you were a kid. Only this one is new, it’s got both its eyes, and the fur is clean and smooth. You hate it but you smile.

You have to hold onto it after that, find it a place in your house, so you leave it in your living room closet. There you can pull it out when needed to show it off when your girlfriend is over, but you don’t have to look at it when she’s not. You told her about how much you’d loved that dog as a kid, and you had for a time, but the relationship was too new to tell her why you’d gotten rid of it.

You didn’t tell her about how it had started to move around at night, never staying where you’d left it. You didn’t want her to laugh at you so you hadn’t told her about how you’d wake up sometimes startled by barks that were too close to be the neighbor's dogs. You didn't tell her about how the dog came back even when you threw it away, even when you tossed it in the ocean. You don’t tell her that you were finally only free from the wretched thing when you burned it.

But now it had made its way back to you. But you’re an adult now and you’re not going to throw it away because of some silly thing you imagined as a kid. But on a quiet night a few days later, when you hear the closet creak open, then you hear the chair you put in front of your bedroom door scrape across the ground, you wish desperately that you’d believed your younger self. After several minutes you decide that listening to the thing breathe next to you is worse than facing whatever it wants. Finally, you throw off your blankets and get ready to confront; The Podcast Inside Your House. 

I knew death before I knew the word for it, alongside violence, pain, fear, and all those other words that can't ever fully describe what they encompass. But I suppose you could argue that about any word, that saying isn't experiencing. Lately, though I don’t find myself thinking about any of those bad words. Lately, I’ve only been obsessed with love and all of the other words contained within. 

I’ve been trying to think of as many ways as possible to describe the feeling of love because when I get strong enough to move my mouth, or write my words, I want to tell my love how I feel about her. 

More than anything I think that love is change. It transforms you, but you don’t always get to choose how. 

My body was made in a factory, identical to dozens, maybe hundreds of others, but love is what made me unique. I’ve seen my brothers and sisters on occasion. They have the same hard plastic arms, the same squishy fabric torso, and the same stuffing inside, but outside I’ve been transformed more than most. I’ll see other dolls with personalized haircuts, but none so bold as mine. I’ll see others with markered or painted-on make-up, but mine is striking to the point of stares. I wish I could remember who’d loved me so deeply to transform me so drastically, but my mind, or whatever you’d call the consciousness inside me didn’t exist until after that person was dead. I carry a part of them quite literally with me though. The bloodstains on my torso are faded now but they were deep enough to stain the stuffing deep inside my chest. 

Love is not what created my mind. I think whatever happened there was the opposite. I came into this world in much the same way that humans do, birthed through screaming and blood and other assorted fluids, but my birth was different. We don’t need to talk about that right now though. Instead, let me tell you about how I met my love. 

When Rose opened me up on Christmas day it was love at first sight. Well for me anyway. She had short spiky pink hair like she’d cut it herself, and she had thick smudges of makeup smeared around her eyes. She reminded me of me, in a way, though I was missing considerably more hair, and I wore considerably more makeup in marker and nail polish all over my body. Rose though, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. If I’d had lungs I would have gasped. If my lips could have moved back then I would have told her that. She didn’t feel quite the same about me though. When she saw me she laughed and laughed. Then the girl who’d brought me home from the store stepped into my view and Rose hugged her close. Then, to my surprise, she said “I love it.” If I’d had a heart it would have fluttered, but then it would have dropped when she said: “It’s so goddamned creepy.” 

“Rose! Language!” someone scolded. Rose twirled me around then, showing me off and I saw the whole family. The girl who’d picked me up from the store was there. She looked a bit older than Rose, and she had honey-brown hair. I always noticed the hair first with people, I envied their ability to grow it back. Rose’s mother had silver hair, short and wavy, and her father had brown hair gelled back. But there was another girl, and when I saw her I had to do a double take. She had the exact same face as Rose, molded from the same set. But her hair was chestnut and her eyes unsmudged by purple and black eyeshadow. It was like looking at the base model of my love before she’d changed herself to be so different. 

I learned the name of Rose’s older sister first, the one who’d adopted me, when their mother chastised her on my behalf. “Debbie, where did you even find that thing?”

The girl beamed “The thrift store! The one where I found Yogi Scare!” 

“Of course.” Their mother replied. “Well if it makes her happy.”

They placed me facedown then, back in the box and though I knew enough of anatomy to know that my eyes were not made of the same flesh or liquid as a person's, they functioned the same nonetheless. I only heard the rest of Christmas, the oohs and ahs and fun. Then at the end, they gathered me up with the rest of the presents, and Rose held me to her chest, it was the first hug that I could remember. 

I met the rest of Rose’s toys when everyone went to bed, but they were all empty inside. It seemed like she'd been trying to find one that wasn't for quite some time though. There were two other dolls, equally as messed up as me, and a handful of stuffed animals. All of them had been greatly changed, and I hoped it was through love, through children scribbling and playing too roughly. I hoped that they hadn’t been doodled on and dismembered out of malice. I didn't know if I could feel pain in this new body but I hoped I wouldn't have to find out. 

Rose placed me next to a teddy bear that was worn with age and missing half its face, the edges smooth and black like they'd been melted. I presumed this must be Mr.Yogi Scare. The words brought back a faint memory of a cartoon but I pushed them away. I was me now and I didn't want to think about what I’d been before. Those memories weren’t really mine, they were from another life.

That first night in my new home I watched my love sleep. I envied her ability to move. It made me wish I could experience discomfort if only to banish it by laying in just the right pose, stretching out just so to get cozy again. 

In the time since, by living with Rose and her family I've learned all kinds of new ways to describe Love. 

Love is slumber parties; it’s Rose and her friends cozy and carefree eating candy and playing games. They whisper secrets so loud that Rose’s mother has to remind them that other people are trying to sleep. 

Love is homework. It's her father trying to puzzle out the math he doesn't understand and Rose telling him what to do under the guise he's figured it out himself. She doesn't need him, but he's helped her since she was a little girl and neither of them are ready for the tradition to stop. 

Love is cleaning, it's her mother tidying up even though Rose says she doesn't need it. Her mother can't help but snoop when she goes into Rose's room but she always shakes her head and puts back the cigarettes, just where she found them. 

Love is yelling, but the fun kind. Rose and her sisters barge into each other's rooms. They tell each other they stink or they play fight, or sometimes they sit and they talk for hours about nothing and everything. Whether they're going to do each other's hair or scream at each other about stolen clothes is impossible to predict. Sometimes Rose and her twin Daisy will do each other’s make-up, Rose scribbling thick eyeliner on Daisy, and Daisy matching garish pink blush to Rose’s hair. Watching them makes me wish I could change my own makeup too, that I could join in on the fun. 

Love is tea parties, but Rose is too old for the traditional kind. No, for Rose’s tea parties, she gathers us all into a circle, all of her misfit toys, and she tries to talk to us. But there's no “How was your day.” There's no “Would you like some Earl Gray.” No, Rose doesn't pretend to talk to us, she genuinely, truly, tries. Hidden even better than her diary and smokes are secrets on her laptop; websites that a girl her age should not be visiting. 

Rose sets the ambiance with lights off and candles lit. Sometimes she plays music, soft but unsettling. Then Rose talks to us in different languages. Some sound familiar, but most don't. Sometimes her chants and questions are in English though, and I get the gist of what she's trying to say. One by one she gives us each the spotlight, trying hard to get us to answer but she doesn't know the others are empty. She asks us how we died, she asks us what's keeping us in this realm. She asks us what our true names are, and if we could speak I'd tell her that mine is the one she gave me, it doesn't matter what it was before. Granted even with my fragmented memory I did have an inkling that Raggedy Dan was probably a joke name, but still, it was mine. 

For a long time, the tea parties are just another part of our routine. That’s another thing that Love encompasses; routine. It’s knowing the rhythm of school and friends and homework. Love is watching the person you care for sleep in their bed every night.

But our routine is broken when Rose starts trying new ways to make us talk. She bought a Ouiji board, a spirit box, and an EMF reader. She doesn’t name all of these things out loud, but I know what they are and I’m reminded in the way that I hate that some of my thoughts are from my past lives. Whoever or whatever I was before must have been interested in the occult. 

The Ouija board didn’t do anything for me, but Yogi Scare answered a series of yes and no questions. Though that was a night Rose was drinking so I’m skeptical that there was really anything there. Shouldn’t we ghosts be able to sense each other? The EMF reader tended to slowly fluctuate regardless of who she was talking to and was never much help. The spirit box though, that held promise. One of the other dolls, a girl with her eyes gouged out said a string of almost coherent words on there before going silent. But when Rose got to me, she pulled my secrets out effortlessly. Secrets that I didn’t even know I had. 

Ever morbid, Rose begins with the usual question. She asks me how I died, and right away three different words appear; Knife, Neck, and Fire. The words make me nervous. I didn’t think of them, I didn’t try to speak them, but I felt like I knew them. 

Rose gasps, and for the first time since I’ve lived here, she looks at me as if she’s aware of my presence. She looks both excited and afraid, and if I could blush I would. If I could mirror her expression I would do that too, because I really don’t want to know any more about myself, but unfortunately, I think we’re about to find out together. 

“What’s your name?” She asks me. I try my hardest to project, to use the box on purpose, and I succeed. The word Daniel appears on the screen. If the stuffing in my chest could flutter with excitement it would, I can talk to her now! But my joy is tempered when the name Lucy appears as well. 

“Is there more than one spirit here today?” Rose asks.

No I think but Yes appears instead. Then the name Andrea follows. 

I know those names, but I don’t want to. The name Lucy especially tugs at my heart, and I feel my thoughts start to cloud with memories that I didn’t know I had. Lucy was a little girl, only five or six years old. Lucy had cut my hair. Lucy had kept me in her bed at night, safe from the things she always feared in the closet and under the bed. But the real monster, when it finally came hadn’t come from the closet or the bed, no, he’d come through the front door. And with him, he’d brought knives and fire and violence. 

The word Stop appears on the box. Rose muses aloud “Lucy, Daniel, Andrea… I know those names from somewhere.” 

Once again the word Stop appears but she’s not looking. The other two names elicit a reaction as well, glimpses into another life. Andrea had been the mother reading on the couch always on her designated spot, with a cat nestled beside her. Daniel had been the father, coming home from work covered in grease and dust, always staving off the after-work hugs and kisses until he’d showered.

But Rose didn’t ask about that. She asked, “Did you all die together?” 

I don’t see what the box says then, fully immersed in the past all I can breathe is smoke, and all I can taste is blood. Muffled screams fill my ears and I don’t know if they’re mine or someone else’s, and my eyes burn from the heat as the flames lick closer and closer. 

All of a sudden I snap out of it. I’m cold again, and I smell the familiar scent of carpet. My vision is dark, but with light seeping in around the edges. The screams are gone, replaced with Rose breathlessly saying “Holy fucking shit.”

I lay facedown for a minute as I hear her slowly step over. She picks me up gently, the way one would pick up an injured animal; caring but careful. I realize then that I’m on the other side of the room. I’ve managed to move. 

“Hey spirits,” She says in a shaky voice “I’m sorry about that, I’ll stop asking questions like that okay?” She holds the box up to her, close like a phone, and says “Goodbye.”

Next week’s tea party was rescheduled. Rose started looking at me differently too. She would be on her bed on her laptop, reading something that looked upsetting. Then she’d stare at me for a long time, sometimes with pity, sometimes with what almost amounted to fear, and sometimes just with a great curiosity like she was trying to solve some grand puzzle that I held the answers to. 

Love is feeling like you’ve had a hole ripped in your chest when the person you love is mad at you. It’s feeling empty when the things that you thought would never change decide to anyway. 

With my love ignoring me I was left to my own devices, and I decided to focus on seeing if I could will my body to move. I practiced while she was at school, and quickly discovered that I was limited by the features of my design. My fingers wouldn't separate no matter how hard I tried, and my joints were perpetually bent at the knees and elbows. But if I mustered enough force I could crawl just a bit. I always crawled back into position before my Rose got home though, I didn’t want to scare her more than I already had. 

She forgave me eventually though, and soon sat us all around for another tea party. This time instead of candles and all the other usual ambience she’d brought a selection of seemingly random items. There was a copy of some fantasy book that you could stop a door with, as well as a toy car in a model that looked disturbingly familiar. There were also flowers and stuffed animals that looked worse for the wear like they’d been outside drying in the sun and rotting in the rain. 

Rose went straight for the spirit box this time, and straight for me. Not without apologizing to the other toys though. “Hey guys, today we’re just gonna talk to Raggedy Dan for a bit because I think he has a lot he wants to talk about. But I promise if there’s any other spirits that have been trying to talk, I’ll come back to you guys later okay?”

Rose set the spirit box between me and her. For a beat, she didn’t say anything, and I kept silent as well. “I brought some things that I thought you might want to see. These were at the memorial in front of the Ward family home. Does that mean anything to you?” 

It did but I tried to block out the memories. The spirit box spoke for me though. It said simply Us. 

“People left all of these things in front of the house, and I thought you might like to see them. Don’t worry, I’m gonna bring them back after tonight, I just thought, well if one of you guys, or if all of you guys are here, that this way you could see how much people cared.” 

Rose and the spirit box were silent for a time, then she said “I’m sorry about what happened to all of you. Can I do anything?” I felt what I wanted as it appeared on the spirit box, the spirits and I were united for once. Blood, Revenge, and Sleep, all appeared rapidly. 

Rose looked at me with a mixture of fear, and determination. “Okay.” She said. Then she held the spirit box up and said “Goodbye.” 

That night as I fought to block out the memories of whatever had happened to me in life, I decided to try something to appease the spirits inside me. I crawled over to the borrowed memorial, and I unscrewed my head. I thought maybe if I put something else in my chest, aside from the dried blood of whoever I’d been before, it would get the ghosts haunting me to stop thinking about fire and pain and all of those other bad things. I tried to pick out something for each of them, the toy car, presumably for the father. For the mother, I tore out a page from the book. For the daughter, I took an eye from a stuffed bunny that had seen better days. But I grabbed something else too. Among the flowers was a bouquet of dried roses, and I picked out a pink one. I’d been someone else before, maybe even a few someone’s but I was me now, and I didn’t want to forget that. I placed all the objects deep into the stuffing in my torso, where my heart should be, and then as quietly as I could I screwed my head back on. 

It felt nice having those small reminders in my chest. It felt like I had a heart now, one I’d chosen partly for myself. Sure I’d had to appease the dead inside me, the spirits who’d demanded I fill myself with their grief first. But I’d also chosen to put love in there. Love is tenacious. It’s invasive. It’s a worm that burrows its way into your heart like nothing else can. It doesn't push out the bad, but it squeezes in beside it, and it reminds you that you have room for good things in your heart too.

The next morning when Rose gathered everything to put back, she noted the missing items. She just stared at me for a minute with an expression that was hard to read. 

The next several days consisted of Rose skipping school. She’d lie in bed, feigning sick, but as soon as everyone else was off to work or school she’d spring into action. She put on nondescript hoodies and jeans and covered her pink hair with a beanie. Then she’d disappear for hours on end. 

Meanwhile, I worked on my own mission. I could crawl faster now, and I had better control over my arms. The things I’d filled my heart with seemed to have both calmed the spirits inside me and given me more strength. I dragged myself onto Rose’s desk and practiced holding a pen between my plastic hands. I wanted to write her a note in my own words, uninfluenced by the ghostly baggage that always took over when we talked with the spirit box. 

When the weekend hit, Rose was miraculously feeling better and told her mom that she was going out with friends. But I saw her packing her mace, and a hanmer into her floral backpack before she left. When she came back she sat us down for another tea party.

This time though she didn't bring the others. It was just me and her; our first date. Only I could have done with better conversation. She sat the spirit box next to me, and asked “Does the name John Vardan mean anything to you?” 

Before I could even fight off the bad memories, the spirits inside spoke for me. The words Murder, Bad, and Killer appeared. I could picture his face vividly then, with his arms wrapped around my neck. I'd gotten better at not letting the bad memories completely take over, but to do so I had to let them in sometimes. I let that one wash over me as Rose explained. 

“So in the news and everything, they've been saying he did it since the fire. I guess um, well Lucy's body had fingerprints on it, what was left of her body anyway. But they mishandled the evidence or something, I don't understand all the legal stuff. But anyway he's just been living his life I guess, so I've been watching him.”

The words Careful and Killer repeated once again. Rose, my Rose was just a girl, she shouldn't be near that monster. 

“I know, I know. I am being careful. But I had to do something.” She pulls me close then touching her leg, and holds my tiny plastic hand in hers. “You know, I've always been just obsessed with ghosts, but you’re the first ones I've ever talked to. I’ve tried so hard to find them before, to like see into the beyond or whatever. And there’s not any reason for that, I’ve just always felt like I had to. But maybe you're the reason. Maybe I was waiting for you. Maybe this is my destiny, that I’m supposed to stop him.”

I sent the words this time; Don’t and Die.

She laughed at that. “Yeah, I'm trying not to I promise.” Then she scooted over and opened her backpack. “I watched Varden for days, I made sure he wouldn't be home, then I snuck in, and I found this.” She stopped herself “This might be upsetting.” Then she pulled out a knife. I waited for the spirits inside me to lash out but they didn't. The knife was just an ordinary camping knife, and I didn’t have any memories of it.

“It's not the Murder weapon is it?” She asked in response to the silence. The spirits and I confirmed No. 

“Well, shit.” She said. “That really sucks, cause one of his neighbors saw me coming out, but I mean, they don't know who I am. But ugh, I was gonna go to the police but now I'm just breaking entering.”  She put the knife back in her bag. “I'll keep looking into things okay? I feel like I'm supposed to fix this. I know you chose me for a reason, and I won't let you down okay spirits?”

I repeated Careful and she said “I will be. Goodbye for now.”

That night I crawled over to Rose’s backpack and put the knife down my neck hole for safekeeping. I was worried Rose was getting into something dangerous, and I wanted to be able to protect her. Love is violent when it needs to be. 

Rose was not careful. Or maybe she was and getting caught was just inevitable when doing something so reckless, and stupid, and brave. Sunday morning she came home from one of her outings shaking. She said simply “I fucked up.” 

She didn’t talk to me the rest of the day. She spent the time searching on her laptop, and occasionally staring at her phone but not making any calls. Her mother, sensing something was wrong, came in a few times with snacks, asking her if she was feeling sick again, and Rose just brushed her off. 

She didn't tell me what was wrong either but I was left in more suspense than her parents because I knew she was getting into something very dangerous. There was no sweating, or fidgeting in this form, but I could feel the dread and anxiety nonetheless. I wished I could wring my hands and pace just to let some of it out. 

As the day ended and everyone went to sleep I started to think that maybe everything would be fine, that “I fucked up” could mean anything to a teenager. But then, sometime in the dead of night, when I was the only one awake I heard the doorbell ring. 

Rose stirred but didn’t wake, and maybe if she’d been able to warn her family they would have known not to answer it. But even in the middle of the night, no one expects death to come knocking on their door. And even in a city where a family like theirs had been so recently ended, everyone trusts the police, and most people aren’t looking for signs of a fake uniform when they show up at your house. It all comes back to me now, all the bits and pieces of my memories I’d tried to fight off. Then I hear from downstairs “Good evening offic—” which cuts off abruptly. Then I hear the door close. 

I crawl over to Rose then, but the door opens before I can get there. I stop, not wanting to give anything away. It’s her mother, telling her to come downstairs because there’s been a family emergency. Rose wakes up and I see the realization on her face. How late it is, combined with whatever happened that morning tells her trouble might be here. She says “Okay Mom.” Then scoops me up and holds me close.

Rose only suspects something bad might be waiting downstairs, but she’s probably worried about teenage things. She’s nervously awaiting the actual cops to arrest her for snooping, or she’s worried she’s in some kind of trouble. It’s funny the things we see as world-ending or life-altering when we’re young. We don’t always realize that very real, and very adult troubles don’t always wait until we’re adults to find us. 

When we get downstairs to the kitchen I recognize his face instantly, but my lips won’t move, and even if they could there’s nothing to push the sound out. I think it’s too late for that anyway though, because once I’m able to look away from him, I take in the rest of the scene. John Varden, the man who killed me, who killed us I guess, has Rose’s father held at gunpoint. Rose gasps when she realizes what’s happening. Daisy is seated next to their father, and they’re both sitting around the dinner table. The oldest girl Debbie, the one who adopted me from the thrift store isn’t home, so that's a small consolation at least. 

Varden smiles when he sees us “There she is! Glad I’ve got the right house, that would have been embarrassing.”

He looks different than I remember, his smile less wolfish, his eyes less sleepless. He looks almost like someone you could mistake for a real person when he’s not covered in the blood of your loved ones. 

“Now, Rose is it? You’re going to help me out here.” he opens up a duffel bag he’s brought with him, and he pulls out a handful of zip ties. “I want you to go around and make sure everyone is going to stay in their seats for me okay? And don’t go getting any ideas about leaving the ties loose, because I’m going to check afterward, and if anyone can pull their hands out of here when you’re done, they won’t have hands when I’m done, are we clear?” 

Rose squeaks out an affirmative noise and starts walking around the table, and I start forming my plan. I wait for Rose to sit down and for Varden to tie her hands too. He places me in her lap and stares at me for a minute, stopping just short of realizing that we’ve met before. 

Then he goes through the kitchen grabbing as many candles as he can, and sets them alight on the table. I know what happens now. Just like Rose and her tea parties, he’s going to go around the circle and give each of us our time with him. First, though, he does something he didn’t do last time. He gives us a speech. 

“You know, despite what everyone’s been saying about me, really I’ve only ever done this once before. I didn’t plan on doing it again, but this one.” He points to Rose “Just couldn't mind her business.” He then pulls out a small can of some chemical, I don’t know what it is but I know it burns fast, and he starts splashing it all around the table. “I can’t help but feel like we were meant to do this though. I mean, if this isn’t my true calling, why is it so fucking easy? Why would you open the door if I wasn’t supposed to be here?” 

Rose’s father is up first. I never learned his first name, but I wonder if, after this is over, his spirit will join the legion of ghosts already inside my heart. Maybe then we’ll finally get to know each other. I know I need to act fast, but I wait for Varden to take Rose’s father away to the next room. As I hear threats exchanged in the next room I’m still me, but I’m also Daniel Ward once again, thinking that if I just tell him the combination to the safe, that maybe he’ll leave us alone. But this time I know he won’t. This time I understand that when he starts hitting and cutting, it’s not because he actually thinks there’s anything I’m holding back, it’s just because he needs an excuse to begin. 

I snap out of it and come back to the present. I turn to Rose, and though I can’t make the shush gesture because my fingers are perpetually molded together, I hold up my plastic hand to my mouth, and she stifles her gasp. I hop off her lap and grab the tablecloth on my way down, hoping to muffle the noise as I fall but, I’m not thinking and I pull one of the candles down with me. Fire and smoke are everywhere in an instant.

I can’t think.

I’m little Lucy now, breathing in the flames, not understanding what’s happening or why. But When Rose cries out I leave the flames of my memories and come back to the heat of the moment. I stand up behind her and unscrew my head. Then I pull out the contents of my chest. 

Love is the knife that you keep secret in your heart, to be used only in emergencies. 

I screw my head back on so I can see, then I grab the knife between my hands. I’m eternally grateful I’ve practiced so much with the pen, because it makes holding the knife so much easier. I’m sad that I will probably never be able to write Rose that letter though. Even as I cut her down my clothes are burning, and what little hair I have left is singing off.

Rose springs free and lifts me up, throwing me on her shoulder. I hold onto her hair as she stumbles to Daisy to cut her free. The flames are licking her clothes too now. As Daisy jumps up, Rose runs over to her mother to cut her out. For just a split second I’m Andrea Ward, dying as the flames start to climb. I’m unsure if I should be relieved or not that Lucy, my baby, would burn rather than endure the knife. 

My rescue plan has happened so fast that when Varden comes back into the room he takes a minute to process things. He must have set his gun down though, because he simply rushes back into the living room. Rose’s mother is free now, but the fire is everywhere. Rose knows what she has to do though. She runs, full sprint into the room where Varden had been slicing up her father. The fire is in her hair, in her clothes, but she knows if she doesn’t stop him before he shoots, it’s over for all of them. Love is walking through flames for the people you love, unsure if you’re going to come out the other side.

I feel myself drifting away now, dying a second death, but I see what I need to see. I see Jack holding the gun but too in shock at the flaming girl barreling straight towards him to fire. I see her knocking him over, then she goes straight for the throat with the knife she stole from him. One that apparently hadn't spilled blood before, but was getting christened with it now. Love is slicing the jugular vein as fast as possible. Love is covering yourself in the blood of your enemies. 

The fire is melting me now. My torso burned quickly, and my arms and legs are next. They drip onto Rose in a toxic plastic syrup and cover her arms and shoulders but she doesn’t stop. Love is letting yourself burn to save your family. Love is letting someone else wear your skin. As my eyes drip down, I see Rose fall to the ground at last. I see her start to roll trying to get the flames and the blood off of her, and I pray she makes it. 

As I melt into her and out of this world, I try to send my thoughts to Rose, but I don’t know if it works. I tell her that no matter how different she comes out of this, that it will be okay. Even if she comes out scarred and burned, she’ll be a hero. I tell her that even if she dies and comes back as a ghost, or as some legion of spirits trapped in a doll, that she can still be loved. I tell her that she showed me that. Lastly, I tell her that no matter how she comes out of this, she won’t be the same, and I tell her that that’s okay. I tell her that Love is change. In the last second before I blink out, as she slows her thrashing on the floor I hear her whisper “Thank you.” 

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And until next time; We hope you have a good Valentine’s Day, whether your date will be a man, a woman, a ghost, or a possessed doll, get out there and have fun!