stacy benedict

Kendall’s eyes snapped open, and her only thought was, I can’t believe that bitch wore my dress. Not how did I get here or why can’t I see. She didn’t ask where is Jamal, the hot accountant with the abs, the biceps, the smooth brown skin, and the soft lips that she had been kissing, like, a second ago. Instead, she thought, That bitch wore my dress.

Darkness pressed on her as if invisible hands were squeezing her eyeballs. Somewhere below her, a motor hummed in a continuous drone.

“Hey,” she yelled, but what came out was a dry croak.

A heavy lethargy tempted her to stay where she was with her legs drawn up and her chin resting on her knees, but a sudden hunger pang cramped her stomach. It gurgled. Loudly.

Why was she so hungry? She’d made sure to eat a sandwich before coming to Flo’s party to avoid stuffing her face like a pig in front of Jamal. Her stomach rumbled a second time.

Moving her limbs proved difficult. Her muscles had stiffened to dry leather, and her toes were numb. The four walls didn’t allow Kendall to straighten her legs. How long had she been lying here in this position?

“Not funny, guys,” she muttered and pushed hard on the wall across from her.

It popped up with a suction sound.

Kendall heaved herself over the top and tumbled out, landing headfirst on a concrete floor. Rubbing her forehead, she groaned and stared at the white-painted steel exterior of a Galaxy commercial freezer.

“What?”

The dim lighting and musty, damp odor were familiar. Black bags stuffed with ski clothes sat next to half-empty paint cans. Exercise equipment and yoga mats lay next to blue plastic bins marked Christmas lights. A washer and dryer lined the far wall. She was in Flo’s basement.

That answered the where, not the why.

Bones cracked as Kendall stretched her back and arms. Again, her tummy growled.

“Settle down,” she ordered it and rubbed her bare arms, thinking she should be freezing. Her skin felt like ice, except she wasn’t cold, more like numb all over.

Cramps twisted her guts. She clutched her stomach and doubled over. Taking deep breaths, she squeezed her eyes shut until the pain slowly ebbed.

That was when she noticed it. Frozen and stiff, a dark, brownish-red stain covered the front of her brand-new $225 on-sale dress—from the top of her sweetheart neckline to the hem at her knee.

She held her hands out and gaped at the stain. “The hell?”

Kendall bit back a curse-filled tirade. This day couldn’t get any worse. It had taken her forever to find this cocktail dress, and now, it was ruined. Running her hands over the front uncovered a tear just under her left breast. She examined the hole. Her fingers slid past the fabric and into cold flesh, sinking knuckle deep.

When she realized she was fingering her rib cage, panic jolted her. With shaking hands, she hiked up her dress. A purpling finger-length gash smiled at her like a second mouth on her chest.

She hyperventilated. “Oh my Lord, oh my Lord, oh fuck, oh, oh God.”

Another hunger pang cut through her hysteria, almost forcing her to her knees.

“What happened to me? My dress?” Kendall closed her eyes. “Think, think.”

Amy Winehouse had been playing from the speakers. She and Jamal sat on the couch in the living room. People were everywhere, talking, laughing, but she only saw Jamal’s brown eyes. He had his arm around her, and he leaned in. His kiss tasted like the merlot that Patty brought to every single party every year since college.

She hated that wine. Everyone did. No one had the cojones to tell her it tasted like stale vinegar. Until tonight. She was already in a foul mood.

Kendall’s lips had curled into a sneer as soon as a smiling Patty held up two bottles of the swill like they were Olympic gold medals. On seeing her face, Patty had stormed off to the kitchen, butthurt.

“Shit.” Kendall’s memory was hazy.

It must have been something she’d said. Had to be. Kendall remembered vomiting apologies a half hour later. Then, what?

“Did she stab me?” Kendall couldn’t remember.

Panicked, she felt her neck for a pulse. A heartbeat didn’t thump under her fingers. She checked her wrist, then her neck again. Nothing.

This is crazy.

She looked around the basement as if answers would materialize out of thin air. Every passing second, she grew more afraid and hungry. Kendall pressed trembling fingers to each side of her neck, praying for a heartbeat. There wasn’t one.

Am I dead?

No, that couldn’t be right. She took halting steps to the freezer and peered inside. On top of a bag of ice sat a long stainless steel knife. Dried blood had frozen onto the blade.

Music clicked on upstairs, startling her. Fiona Apple belted out a bluesy tune. Laughter followed, then the murmurs of conversation.

Kendall’s hands curled into fists. Hunger and fear churned into rage. “That bitch could’ve killed me.”

She grabbed the knife, stalked up the basement stairs, and opened the door a crack. No one was in sight. She crept down the hall, following the sound of voices. A feminine giggle. A deep voice. Fiona Apple crooned about lost love over a piano solo.

Jamal and Ambrose swayed and held their beer bottles like microphones and sang along with the music. Ambrose touched Jamal’s arm once, twice. She slunk close to him, brushing her breasts against his chest. Giving him an eyeful of her cleavage, which he didn’t hesitate to take.
Kendall twisted the handle of the knife, licking her lips. Hate and hunger clawed the inside of her stomach.
“Kendall?” said a soft voice behind her.
Kendall whipped around.
Patty stared bug-eyed at Kendall. “What happened to your—”
Kendall plunged the knife into Patty’s throat. She clamped a hand over Patty’s mouth and dragged her flailing body into the half bathroom in the hall. Wrestling Patty to the floor, Kendall held her tight until her legs went limp and her chest stopped moving.
She pulled the knife from Patty’s throat. Dark red blood seeped down her neck onto the fuzzy pea-green bathmat. Kendall slumped against the door and inhaled, but stopped before her lungs were full.
I’ve been holding my breath since leaving the basement. She checked herself for a pulse again. Still nothing.
Her stomach gurgled, demanding to be fed.
Kendall looked down at Patty and brushed a lock of brown hair from her open, vacant eyes. Blood had soaked through the bathmat and was pooling on the floor, staining the white grout lines between the tiles. They had been friends since sophomore year at the University of Miami.
Sadness and horror joined Kendall’s non-beating heart. Or maybe the vacant emotions were consumed by the growing need in her. As if moving by a will of their own, her hands cradled Patty’s skull and squeezed. Her fingers bore into the flesh and through bone. With one hard yank, Patty’s head cracked open like a honeydew melon. Clear fluid gushed out.
Kendall dived on the sweetbread inside, shoveling the grayish-pink matter into her mouth. The silky globules slid down her throat and slipped past her fingers. She swabbed her tongue along the floor to not lose a speck of that sweet meat.
A knock on the door burst Kendall’s delirium.
“Hello? Patty, everything okay in there?” asked Ambrose. “We heard a noise.”
Kendall looked down at her bloody hands. “Out in a minute.”
“Kendall? I thought you’d left?”
“I’m helping Patty. Too much wine. We’ll be out in a sec, okay?”
“Um, okay.”
Ambrose’s voice sparked a memory in Kendall.
In the back of her mind, she heard Ambrose asking, “We need ice … get from … basement.”
First stab me, then steal my boyfriend.
Kendall sucked her fingers dry and then picked up the knife. She waited until Ambrose’s footsteps retreated before opening the door. The music was still playing at one end of the hall. In the opposite direction came the sounds of running water and dishes clinking.
Jamal’s and Ambrose’s muffled voices drew her attention, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. The front door opened, then closed. Seeing a shadow approaching, Kendall shut the door and waited for the person to pass the bathroom.
“Everything good in there?” Ambrose asked.
Kendall grunted.
Ambrose clomped down the hall to the kitchen, balancing used champagne flutes in one hand and cake-smeared dishes in the other.
Kendall slipped out of the bathroom, holding the sticky knife behind her back. She lurched toward the kitchen on stiff legs, saliva pooling in her mouth in anticipation. The sound of female voices and running water grew louder with each step.
“He’s so, so sweet,” Ambrose whispered. “God, I hope I can see him again.”
Flo snorted. “What’s stopping you?”

Their laughter grated like the squeals of a mouse with its leg caught in a trap. Kendall peeked from behind a wall. Flo stood at the sink, washing glasses with a pale-yellow sponge, while Ambrose sat at the counter, nibbling on the remains of a cheese platter with her back to the hallway entrance.
“I think Patty got wasted again,” Ambrose said around a mouthful of Manchego.
Smirking, Flo looked up from the sink. Her eyes widened. A wineglass slipped from her fingers into the suds. “How?”
“That cheap merlot. How else?” Ambrose furrowed her brows at Flo’s expression. “Huh?” She turned.
Kendall drove the knife into her back. It slid into Ambrose as if she were made of Brie.
You were supposed to be my friend. You convinced me to do goat yoga. For fuck’s sake, the thing peed on me!
Kendall moaned each time she plunged the blade in. Again. And again. Her arm was a piston. Ambrose’s body crashed to the floor, nothing more than a bloody sack.
Flo staggered back and screamed. She ran toward the door to the back porch.
“Waaait!” Kendall moaned.
She tried to say, Ambrose almost killed me, but all that came forth was a long groan. Her legs were stiff planks, refusing to bend at the knee. Grunting, she stretched her arms out to grab Flo, to stop her so she could just explain. Ambrose was the one at fault. Not her.
Flo pulled on the door handle, screaming with tears pouring down her face. She banged on the wooden frame. “Help! Please, somebody.”
Silly girl. Push, not pull. Kendall shook her head. Flo always forgets the simplest things when she’s frustrated. She cornered Flo at the door and patted her head. I won’t hurt you. You wouldn’t betray me. Our families go skiing together every year. We binge-watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer on my birthday.
She cocked her head and blinked at Flo, who cowered on the floor in a gorgeous silver cocktail dress with rivulets of black mascara staining her cheeks. Kendall’s thoughts drifted to earlier tonight. She had arrived early to help Flo set up.

“You don’t show up to a party wearing the same dress as the host,” Flo yelled. “Go home and change.”
“No way. Who’d even care?” Kendall rolled her eyes.
“It’s my party. You always do this. Always trying to show me up whenever you can—at work, in the gym, or even when we’re on vacation. Now, in my own house.”

Later, Ambrose’s voice whispered, “We need ice. Flo wants you to get it from the freezer in the basement.”
“Why me? Ugh, whatever. She’s so immature.” Kendall stormed off to the basement. She reached into the freezer for the ice but heard footsteps behind her.
Who was behind her?
She spun around. Pain seared through her chest.

The memory faded to its conclusion.
“Please, God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.” Flo screamed, “Help!”
Kendall stopped Flo’s tears with her thumbs. Her friend hollered and kicked, slamming her legs into Kendall’s
sides. She beat on Kendall’s arms and tore a fistful of shiny fabric from her stained cocktail dress.
Kendall’s stomach roared. She needed to reach the gooey center of Flo’s head. The skull squished like a grape in
her hands, exploding the delectable contents out. Kendall slurped the warm fruit, delighting at the earthy taste
and buttery mouthfeel.
She let Flo’s body fall from her grip, and she tottered to Ambrose. Banging Ambrose’s head on the edge of the
counter yielded more sweet fruit. Kendall gorged until her belly could hold no more. She lay on the kitchen floor
in a pool of fresh blood, exhausted, but never feeling so sated.
Her eyelids drooped, and her only thought was, Why should I have changed? I looked better in the dress anyway.

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Song List

Amy Winehouse – Tears Dry On Their Own

Fiona Apple – Every Single Night