Chapter 6: Tom's whimpers mingle with the wet crunch of chitin as Annalise peels the centipede apart with tweezers, each torn segment falling onto his bare chest - she smears its oozing hemolymph across his collarbones before mounting him on the cold marble, her nails drawing blood as she snarls 'Come with its death throes' and he obeys, screaming as the creature's severed halves curl in on themselves
The shower after the greenhouse had been a silent, steam-filled ritual, washing away the physical evidence but leaving the psychic imprint cleaner and brighter. A week had passed, a normal week of work and takeout and movies, but the air between them crackled with a new, unspoken currency.
It was a Tuesday evening. The kitchen smelled of lemon cleaner and the vegetarian chili Annalise had just made. The overhead pendant lights were too bright, turning the marble counters into glacial plains.
Tom was drying a bowl, watching her wipe down the stovetop. Her movements were efficient, practiced.
“I was reading about centipedes today,” she said casually, spraying a blue cleaner onto the glossy black glass.
“Yeah?” He kept his tone even. They had not discussed it, not directly. It hung there, a forbidden exhibit in their private museum.
“Fascinating creatures. All those legs. They move in a wave, you know? A beautiful, undulating wave.”
She rinsed the cloth in the sink, wrung it out. “House centipedes are the worst, though. All skitter. No drama. I ordered something better.”
Tom put the bowl down very carefully on the counter. The ceramic made a soft tok.
“Annalise.”
“Don’t ‘Annalise’ me.” She smiled, opening a drawer. She pulled out a long, rectangular shipping box, the kind with air holes. She placed it on the gleaming counter between them. “It’s a Scolopendra. A big one. From Vietnam, I think.”
His mouth was dry. “Why?”
“Because the cockroaches were about sound,” she said, tracing a fingernail along the tape seal. “This is about… precision.” She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the cold kitchen lights. “And participation.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. She took a butcher’s knife from the block. The steel made a soft, ringing sigh as it slid free.
With quick, precise motions, she slit the tape and opened the flaps. Inside, nestled in shredded paper, was a clear deli container. Inside that, coiled like a sprung trap, was the creature.
It was the color of old blood and mustard, segmented, with too many legs to count without going insane. It was as long as her hand from wrist to fingertip. Its antennae tapped feverishly against the plastic.
“Jesus,” Tom breathed.
She emptied the container onto the cutting board. It moved instantly, a swift, flowing scurry toward the edge. She pinned it gently with the flat of the knife, just behind its head. Its body lashed, legs flailing in a chaotic, silent paddle against the virgin wood.
“Come here.”
He didn’t move. His heart was a fist in his throat.
“Tom. Look at it.”
He looked. Each segment was a perfect armored plate. The legs, like fine hairs tipped with sharp points, beat a frantic rhythm. It was horrifying. It was magnificent.
She reached out with her free hand, not for him, but for the dish towel. She wrapped it around a fistful of his hair and pulled. It wasn’t a gentle tug. It was a direct, claiming yank that brought him stumbling a step closer, bending him over the counter, his face inches from the struggling animal.
Her voice was a breath against his lips. She still smelled faintly of the cilantro from the chili. “Count each segment as I slice it.”
“Annalise, I can’t—”
“You can. Start at the head. One.”
She shifted the knife, turning the blade to its edge. She placed it across the first segment behind the terrified, swaying head. The centipede’s body coiled violently, its back legs brushing Tom’s knuckles where he gripped the counter edge. A cold, skittering touch.
She sawed. Not a chop. A slow, deliberate drag of the razor-sharp steel through the chitin.
A sound escaped the creature. A faint, high-pitched squeal, almost ultrasonic. The first segment severed. Two dozen legs on that front half went berserk, scrambling on air. The separated rear half writhed, a chaotic, leg-waving dance.
“One,” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear.
A thick, oozing fluorescence leaked from the cut. The smell was acrid, chemical. Her hip pressed against his thigh. He could feel the tension in her body, the focused control. He was painfully hard.
She moved the knife back. Set the edge against the next segment. Sawed again.
This time, the cut was cleaner. The segment came away with a soft, wet pop. The front half of the creature, now just a head and one segment with a few frantic legs, arched back, mandibles gnashing at nothing.
“Two,” Tom choked out.
His hips gave an involuntary jerk, pressing against her. She rewarded him with a slower, more grinding sawing motion for the third cut.
“Three.”
The rear half was now in two pieces. One piece twitched in a slow circle. The other convulsed. The front was dying, slowing. But not dead. Never immediately dead.
She cut a fourth segment. A fifth. With each number he gasped, his vision blurring at the edges, focusing only on the line of steel, the parting flesh, the diminishing, insane vitality of each piece. The cutting board was a landscape of yellow gore and twitching limbs. The smell was in his nose, in his mouth.
On the seventh cut, he came, shuddering, biting down on a cry that was equal parts ecstasy and horror, his forehead dropping to the cool marble beside the board.
She finished the eighth cut meticulously, separating the final wriggling fragment. Then she let go of his hair and dropped the knife. It clattered on the stone, smeared with internal juices.
She turned him, pushed him back against the fridge. The metallic hum vibrated through his shirt. She kissed him, deep and searching, her tongue claiming his mouth. He could taste the chili, the cilantro, and underneath it, the sharp, alien tang of the centipede’s blood on her lips.
When she pulled back, she was grinning, her pupils blown wide. “You lost count after six,” she said, her voice husky.
He could only nod, his body humming, his mind a white noise of aftermath.
She stepped away, looking at the ruin on the board with a critical, almost artistic eye. “Cleanup is hell with these,” she said lightly, picking up the knife by its handle. “The legs keep moving. You have to sweep them into the disposal all at once or they crawl out.”
She ran the water, rinsing the blade. The water ran murky, then clear.
Tom slid down the fridge door until he was sitting on the floor. He watched her. She was utterly calm, swapping cruelty for domesticity in a heartbeat.
“That was different than the greenhouse,” he finally said, his voice raw.
She turned off the water, dried the knife, slid it back into the block. It stood there, innocent between the bread knife and the paring knife.
“It was,” she agreed. She walked over and sat down on the floor next to him, their shoulders touching. She rested her head against the fridge. “Less... chaotic. More intimate. You were part of the geometry that time.”
“It screamed,” he said.
“I know.” She took his hand, laced her fingers with his. They were clean, smelling of lemon soap. “Was it better or worse?”
He thought about the question. He thought about the slow, deliberate segmentation, the counting, the way her focus had been a laser connecting the knife, the creature, and him. A closed circuit.
“It was more,” he said simply.
She squeezed his hand. “That’s what I thought too.”
They sat in the bright, clean kitchen, listening to the hum of the appliances, the distant city sounds filtering through the window. On the counter, a single severed leg, having inched its way to the edge of the cutting board, finally stopped twitching.