A rusted run of wire tightened around Brynne’s throat and in a few moments she was gone.
An excuse for humanity pressed his wild-eyed face against hers and shushed the girl in her expiration. He needed it to be that way. Lank hair plastered across his sweat-beaded skull he blew fevered, rutting huffs and cut the clothes from her body.
The ritual after each kill must follow the same procedure. Disrobe, eviscerate, and then mummify the remains, to fill a reservoir of trophy wives in undead service to his needs.
He flung off the scraps of her shirt and exhaled in dismay. Fingers that peeled with fungal rot traced the dimpled scars of bullet wounds. A blossom of burn tissue. Counted double-digits of grooves tracked by scalpels and knives sharpened for goals similar to his own. The girl had been a canvas for a dozen artists before himself.
So absorbed was he in poring over the damage to his prize, he could do nothing about the blade drawn across his own throat and crammed into his eye. Brynne regarded the new scar about her neck in the rear view mirror on her drive home. It was not the work she had in mind when she agreed to immortality, but she wore each trophy with pride.