So much time has passed…and I still feel this darkness in my being, a black abyss continuing to envelope and consume the only goodness left inside of me. A clock ticks above the kitchen sink, whispering in my ears to wake up, wake up from the horrors of nostalgia. Memories drift in and out like an uncanny nightmare, and suddenly, I can feel him, my husband's breath on my neck, nails digging into my skin as he waits for me to shred off stones that barricade my soul, my immense vulnerability. He feeds on it, you see, needing to rip up apart my body with bare teeth until I can give him exactly what he wants, until my fists can no longer fight. The second-hand ticks, as if tempting me to cave into the torture, threatening me to swing an ax at the object.
       The screeching of a steak knife against a plate brings me back to life, as if my soul detached itself from my body and has now returned to its host. I watch as he stabs the piece of meat with the fork and brings the steak into his mouth, juices running down his lips as he chews, swiping his tongue along the edges to lick them up. He then devours the green beans as if he couldn't get enough of them, scrapping his teeth along the utensil, making a satisfying crunch, moaning in complete ecstasy. I place my elbows on the glass dinner table and watch in amazement, loving the way my lover scarfs down the meal I cooked. He looks delicious in his white button-up with rolled up sleeves and black slacks, a real businessman.
             It's cliché to say, but this man saved my life. If he hadn't stepped in and disrupted the performance, I would have been brutally slaughtered in the hands of another, one who demanded to only do what he sees fit, to kneel before his throne as if I had to worship the little ego he has left. I had once loved someone who admired my very soul, trusted someone who convinced me I was more than a body to grab, to tug and shove, to puncture. But I was wrong. Suddenly, I'm in the corner crawling to be free from the chains the Devil had inflicted on me, crying on bathroom tiles in hopes to be free.
             This man right in front of me recognized everything I was willing to give, everything I was willing to offer in order to be truly seen by another. He saw what other's couldn't see, appreciated all layers of my damaged soul, had willingness to caress what the other evidently destroyed. It only took one night to see he was the man for me, the man I've craved for, thirsted for, one night for him to seduce me underneath white bed sheets and scarlet walls to ultimately be his. It's easy to please a man that loves you, easy to please a man who seems to know all the right words and all the right places to touch...and mean it.
             I excuse myself from the dinner table and walk over to the kitchen sink. I smile as my heels click against the wooden floor, feeling his eyes roam the length of my body, hoping he noticed the white pencil dress I wore that fit tightly around my curves. I turn on the faucet and begin washing some of the dishes, placing the pot in the sink and rinsing away its debris. But before I can fully clean it, I hear the silverware drop on his plate, his chair screech along the wood. I bite my bottom lip once I feel his warm body behind me.
             "This dress…" he says, his chest pressing against my back, "fuck, baby."
             He grazes his fingers along the material, traveling down until he reaches the small slit that exposes the lower half of my thighs. He then runs his fingers through the strands of my hair before pulling my long curly locks to one side to reveal my bare neck. He reaches over to turn off the faucet in front of me, and kisses the curve of my neck. The roughness of his scruff scratches against my skin as he gently sucks and teases my hot flesh, licking all the way up to nibble on my ear.
             I sigh in pleasure, biting my bottom lip as I place my wet hands on the counter, thirsting for more. He then brushes his fingers along the length of my torso, quite aware of how thin the material is as they travel lower and lower, down the front of my body until he reaches the end of my dress. He slowly pulls the fabric up to expose my thighs.
             "Did you wear this just for me, love?" he whispers in my ear.
             I nod, biting back a moan as his hand presses against my bare thigh, moving upward to sneak his fingers in between my legs. He continues to feel them, his hand inching closer to my inner thighs as he slowly and seductively kisses my shoulder, pulling the strap down with his teeth while almost touching the spot between my legs.
             But before I can plead him to touch me right where I want him to, he stops. He moves his hand away and touches mine instead, his index finger circling around my wedding ring. He taps it three times.
             "I love when you wear your wedding ring, baby" he whispers, feeling along the edges of the diamond, "it turns me on, knowing you're a married woman, knowing you're mine."
             He quickly spins me around without warning, and roughly slams his mouth to mine, devouring me, tasting me as if he's starving, thirsty, as if his meal wasn’t enough. I grab onto his shirt, bringing him closer to me, needing more of him, needing to taste him, needing to be taken by him, needing to scream and cry out in pleasure, wanting people to hear. He knows, you see, he always knows what I want, he always knows I want him.
             He suddenly wraps his fingers around my throat, gently choking me, and I can't help but moan at what he's doing to me.
             He tugs on my bottom lip with his teeth before pulling apart, and I watch his tongue lick his lips as if he can't get enough of me. He gently squeezes my neck, making me gasp. His eyes are dark, heated, hungry.
             "Where is he?" he asks, kissing me again, licking the inner corners of my mouth, "tell me, baby. Where is your husband?"
             I nod to his right, grinning as I cover his hand around my throat with mine, "In the basement."
             We couldn't just let my husband go, you see. We couldn't let him get away from what he has done to me, tearing me apart, punching and wounding me for the sake of seeking my defeat. We did what we had to do.
             As we're walking down the steps of the basement, the wood creaking with every footstep we make as I follow behind, I see my husband, tied to the chair, beaten up and wounded by the man that stands beside me.
             My husband's wrists and ankles are strapped together with ropes and cable ties, his mouth taped shut. One of his eyes is bruised, now purple and swollen shut, and there are stains of blood, his blood, on his nice blue shirt. He then sees me in the faint light above, and widens his eyes, squirming against the constraints, moaning against the tape.
             I can just hear what he's attempting to say, his voice inside my head, begging me to release him, trying to convince me that he sincerely loves me, cares for me, needs me, how much of a value I am to his world, pleading to spare his life as if he will give me everything that I desire. Bullshit! He made vows and promises to love a woman, to keep her safe, protected, to be there in her moment of weakness, insanity, and even strength! And yet, here we are, baby. Here we are.
             He's groaning and weeping, practically bellowing in the night, attempting to call for some help across the bayou, begging for my forgiveness like he actually deserves it. But we ignore him, my love and I, unbothered by his suffering and overall discontent. My man pulls out a knife out from some sort of tool box, a collection of weapons that he calls a hobby. The metal reflects in the light as he runs his finger along the blade, slightly cutting his skin to emphasize the sharpness of it. He then hands it to me, his eyes still hungry for something other than what's waiting for him between my legs. I take it from him without hesitation.
             "Will you do the honors, honey?" he asks, swiping a piece of hair away from my face. He kisses me again, moaning against my lips.
             Suddenly, something inside of me, monstrous and dark, burns in my being. Something inside of me becomes murderous, furious, all the memories of my husband beating my flesh until I bled flash before my eyes. Heat consumes the mere bones of my body, and darkness looms over them, creating a rage that's been hidden inside, waiting and building since the first time my husband shoved my body into a glass coffee table.
             I look straight into my husband's eyes, firmly gripping the knife in my hand, the handle bruising my skin as I respond to my lover, "Gladly."
       I blink.
       And then it's everywhere.
             The blood…his blood.
             On walls.
             Across my face.
             Soaking my hands.
             Staining my dress.
       Painting my skin.
       His lifeless guts.
             My canvas.
             My husband's dead flesh.
             And I can feel him behind me, my lover, watching over me as I slash and destroy my husband's corpse, standing behind to see and witness the beauty of my work, the craft I created for him.
             "Good girl," he smiles from beside me, smoothing back my hair, "Good girl."