I'll tell you where she buried Roberto's body next time. At the moment, I'd rather get into a curious habit she had:

She enjoyed coating her bed linen with her menstrual discharge. Everything in her room was unassuming, except for the blood-imbued bedding.

If you looked closely, you could make out the age of the blood stains by their hue of burnt burgundy–the older ones were darker in shade than the newly moistened ones.

To tell you the truth, the sight of the bloodied bedspreads didn't bother me, or even their offensive odor. Nay, what perturbed me was her overbearing insistence that I suckle on the bedsheets during our weekly bioenergetic catharsis meetings.

I don't care for the taste of iron, selenium has always been my favorite tasting chemical element. However, I would go along with her relentless pleas because I knew she meant well–she knew my platelet levels were low from the chemotherapy I was doing, and she wanted to ensure that I wasn't anemic.

She was kind in heart, and generous too.