The first thing I did after they called me was take as many pills as I could.

”Hello, we’re calling about your boyfriend-“

Wellbutrin.

”-his body was found. It was charred, but we were still able to identify the hair near the crimescene,”

Adderall.

”We believe it’s murder,-“

Xanax.

*”-I promise you, I will do everything I can to find who killed him. Call back when you hear this.”

Vidocain.

As relieved as I was to know I had succeeded, I was scared. They found and identified the corpse. There wasn’t much time until I would get worse. Still, charred? That wasn’t how I’d left it. I thought about him, his superiority, his vengefulness. How he always got back at you, in the exact way you got him with first. After a thorough shower and a few cigarettes, I was asleep, my troubles fading since the drugs kicked in. Until I woke up to his face. Kinder than ever before, standing at the foot of my bed. His hair was as stiff as ever, skin and lips glossy with too much product. An unpleasant visit. “What the hell?!” it was my voice, sour, still fearful. While he didn’t speak, he appeared genuinely confused, pouting like a child. He always does… he always did this. However, I was no longer scared of his hands. They could no longer strike me, pull my hair, caress my thighs against my will. I knew he was fake. I shut my eyes and ears and hid under the covers, willing myself to sleep. And when I awoke to an empty room, I sighed, noting to calm down on the prescription drugs.

It’s been a week. I thought I was safe. I’ve been working, laughing, hanging with friends. Doing all the normal things someone my age would be doing. I was happy, free. Until I saw the poorly hidden bottle of chloroform, felt the greasy hand around my mouth, the feeling of a syringe, and my muscles nearly collapsing. I wasn’t as smart as him.

The charred corpse fills my mind. I hadn’t burned it, but as dirt falls through the cracks of the worn wooden coffin, I almost wish I had.