by Rebecca King
Each night, she tells him a story, and each night, before kissing her forehead and rolling over into sleep, he tells her he just might kill her in the morning. She lies awake, knowing that his nightmares will return and that he will cry out, wrapping his arms around her, still half-asleep. She hopes silently that his nightmares never end.
Every morning, she lives. He calls the executioner and uses his blade to peel the skin off their breakfast―clementines and boiled eggs. As the months fall away, she begins to wonder if she could peel him, too, in long, curling strips of shell that fall to the floor. She imagines the pulp of him. Ruby red and soft, like a blood orange. Maybe then he’d reach for her with his eyes open.
Rebecca King hails from Missouri and received with her MFA in Creative Writing from Chatham University. She founded Origami Zoo Press, where she now works as an editor. Her stories have appeared in decomP, >killauthor, and 300 Reviews among others.