Then there was only the head.
It sat in a Rubbermaid tub on the backseat. Occasionally we hit a bump, and then the head would tumble around in the container, an oddly squishy sound in the darkness. We would probably throw the head out into the desert. It served the bastard right.
"What the hell did we just do?" I asked. The entire day suddenly seemed too surreal to have actually happened; a bad trip, and nothing more.
"We?" Laura snorted, and gave me a sideways look, her hands at ten and two. "You got a mirror in your pocket? Because I'm just the cleanup crew here. I didn't touch the guy until after he was dead."
I was too wound up to point out that Laura was the one who owned the chainsaw, "just in case". I also could have mentioned the gloves, heavy duty trash bags and four gallon container of bleach that she always carried in her car. I kept my mouth shut. Fighting with the person who knew more about getting rid of bodies than the Mob was kind of stupid. Besides, she was saving my backside.
"He just brought out the animal in me," I scrubbed my face, as if I could erase the vivid images. "I just lost it."
"It happens to us all," Laura was always philosophical at times like these. I was less so, but that's likely because I had just killed my boyfriend. That sort of event tended to color one's outlook a bit. I wasn't a bit sorry that I had done it, either. Even now, with a nagging fear that we had left some sort of clue behind for the police, I was still outraged.
"He knew that was my last Butterfinger, the son of a bitch!"
The prompt is the third definition of the word ANIMAL.
