I flip the blade in my hand as I sit on his couch, spreading my legs wide open so he will see.
I wait, tap my heels against the wooden floor, and wait. The front door will swing open soon, you'll see. He won't be long now; Mr. Moore.
Do you know what it feels like to be betrayed; to feel used, abused, discarded for the poor to see? Do you know what it feels like to be abandoned, always the one destroyed, damaged, left for maggots to eat, organs to starve?
They say the heart is a cruel little thing, always giving itself away for the purpose of being loved, to be accepted, appreciated—to beat along another without shame or regret. But the heart is as naïve as a virgin's little flower, and it doesn't take long before the chambers blacken and the valves constrict, restricting the blood from pumping, drying the muscle until it grays. And what are we left with? Nothing, absolutely nothing. They leave, leave as if our existence prevents the living from living, as if our births should have been still. Our energies were wasted, our love became floor rugs in basements, and we are buried alive for no one to grieve, choking on gravel among the remains of the dead.
Am I supposed to thank them for murdering what was left of me? Forgive them and beg for their mercy like a pitiful little rag doll needing to be sowed up? No, no, no, no…honey. That is not how I do things.
Don't tell me you never thought about them getting what they deserve, that you never thought about hearing them beg for their lives, for your mercy, having them on their knees for you as thick, delicious blood pours out of their filthy little necks? Don't tell me you never thought about their hearts in your hands, ripping them out of their chests with your bare fingers, one by one, squeezing their organs until blood drips down your body? Have you ever wondered what would happen if their souls were destroyed like yours, if their bodies were used, abused, discarded for the poor to see, the wolves to feast, the maggots to eat until only bones were left? Haven't they already lived enough? Why can't you have a taste?
Mr. Moore should be arriving in three minutes, and I can't wait for him to see what I have in store for him. He was my lover, you see. I fell in love with his charm, his cheeky smile—his confidence. He wanted me, craved for me—tickled his scruff on my skin, pressed his lips on my shoulder, asked questions, listened, responded, looked at me as if he was in love with my soul and not my body. And when he finger fucked me, when he was inside of me, when he slammed me on the bed with his hands around my throat and fucked me until I came, I fuckin' loved it because I loved him.
But everything was a lie. The dinners he cooked, the shoulders he rubbed, his kindness and care—all pretend. To him, I was just another pussy, another woman he can flaunt to his ugly brothers and fat friends, bragging about the strings he's attached to so many women, never not getting his cock sucked. And when I found that diamond ring in his coat pocket and confronted him about it, he told me it wasn't for me, I didn't deserve it, I didn't…earn it. Someone else did. And then he said those words you say to women who are no longer needed, who no longer served a purpose in your pitiful life.
"It's not you, it's me," he said, "You deserve someone who will love you as much as you love them…" blah blah blah…snooze, yawn, yes…it's all the fuckin' same.
So here I am, in lacy black lingerie and tights with heels, legs spread to reveal everything he misses about me. I remember like it was yesterday; the way his tongue licked my skin, the way his mouth sucked my toes, his face buried in between my legs like a starved little pet. I missed it so much. I missed him so much—at least the parts of him that were good before painted with greed and revealing himself to be a whore.
I play with my knife, counting down the minutes until he comes home. I even play with the switch on the lamp next to me, turning it on and off, bored out of my mind, waiting with anticipation. There's a clock in the kitchen, and it ticks so loud I can hear it in my chest. It echoes within the darkness, screams and whines like children, telling me to be ready, to do the deed, commit the crime— sin.
And then, I hear him, pulling up into his driveway, his car lights hitting the front window. Yes! I'm so excited! My heart pounds against my chest, starving for its dinner. I quickly click the lamp switch off and place the blade in between the cushions. His car door slams shut, and I wait, wait to hear his footsteps, to hear him unlock the front door, to come in.
Tick, tock. Tick…tock.
Tick…
He's here.
He shuts the door behind him, locks it, sighs.
He doesn't see me at first; setting his briefcase down, throwing his keys in the bowl, taking off his coat—sleeve by sleeve—and placing it on the coat hanger.
He smoothes back his hair like a man with class, and I admire him for a second. I forgot how lean he looked in a button-up, the way his shoulders rise when distressed, the way his lips thicken when he sucked them between his teeth. Oh, Mr. Moore, you little bitch.
He's about to walk towards the kitchen, but then pauses in his step. He notices something, feels someone watching him from behind. I can just see those thick eyebrows furrow in confusion, and before he notices my presence, I switch on the light.
"Hi, baby," I smile.
He gasps, horrified, recognizing the woman lurking in the shadows of his home. His eyes widen, his cheeks flush, and before he asks what I'm doing here, his gaze roams all over my perfect body, admiring my lingerie and defined curves, licking his plump lips when lingering on that delicious spot between my legs. His eyes suddenly darken, and I know he's starving for a taste, for just one lick.
"You hungry?" I bite my bottom lip.
He sucks in a breath and attempts to look into my eyes, but somehow, has difficulty doing so. This man cannot resist a pussy like mine. He lives for it, needs it, as if it's his last meal.
He doesn't have to say a word. I know what he wants. I know what he desires to do, desires to eat. If only his wife was here to see him cave, to watch him give in and salivate to the one thing she can't give him…ah, what a nice production that would be.
I briefly tease myself; slowly rub my hands all over my body, my hard nipples. I tell him to come here, to get on his knees for me, like he used to. He hesitates, as if he's changed, as if he's such a good man, a perfect gentleman.
"I…you…you shouldn't be here," he speaks, clearing his throat like he hasn't thought about fucking me on this couch until I bleed.
I ask him innocently if he wants me to leave, but he quickly shakes his head like a good little boy when I begin to close my legs, needing to have me spread open for him as his manhood grows and hardens in his pants. Once I begin to touch myself, whispering nasty things, luring him under my erotic spell, it doesn't take long for him to come crawling to me. He's now on his knees, right in front of me, drooling to the sight of my sex, begging me to let him taste until I can no longer breathe.
He needs me. He fuckin' needs me.
So I let him, let him taste, eat, devour me. And damn do I love those sounds; of his mouth and tongue, making me moan and shake like a woman getting fucked. I push his head between my legs for more, and he clenches my thighs, willingly, eyes squeezed shut.
Then I reach for the knife in between the cushions and grip the handle until my skin bruises.
There's a darkness closing in on me once I lean forward, a shadow suddenly consuming every bone and vessel in my body. I feel it inside my flesh as my blood boils, its whet nails scratching, sharp teeth snarling, digging inside, hungry, thirsty.
I place my arm on top of his shoulder so he wouldn't notice the knife dangling from behind him. I roughly peel his head away, and grip his chin in my hands. Look at him, so fuckin' pitiful; dark eyes, puffy lips, a cunning smile. I bring my lips closer to his as if we're about to kiss, smelling myself as his mouth gapes open in awe.
"Oh my, Mr. Moore," I whisper with a smile.
"You like that?" he asks, running his tongue on my bottom lip.
"Yes…you sick, dumb fuck," I smirk.
I tighten my hold on the knife, and then quickly pierce it through his flesh from behind. His beautiful brown eyes widen in shock, staring directly into mine, into the eyes of the Devil. I take out the blade and become mesmerized by the blood on the weapon, dripping from the tip, staining the wood. His thick, beautiful, delicious blood arouses my senses, you see, and creates a pulse between my legs as my mouth waters at the sight. His blood controls me, wakes me, and I need more.
Before Mr. Moore can react to my own doing, before he can wrap his hands around my throat and purposely choke me to death, I plunge the knife into the side of his neck, hitting a vessel, watching his dark blood gush out of the wound like a fuckin' choir song.
"Fuck yes!" I moan.
He's choking on the fluid, attempting to cover it with his trembling hands. Blood spews out of his neck, pours out of his mouth, painting hands, staining skins, consuming a clean, white shirt, his shirt, my lingerie.
I throw him to the side, disgusted, electrified. And while he lays there on the floor, body convulsing, blood continuously expelling, creating puddles and puddles next to his head, I get on top of him, straddling his hips so he can keep still. I slash through his flesh like the Devil watches me from behind. I feel Him scream dirty words and sadistic phrases as I tear him apart, limb by limb. I rip through his guts with the knife, loving the way it splashes on my body, scatters across my face, soaking my hands, spurting out of his chest. I shout and I cry as I ravage through his thick blood and fresh flesh, delving inside until he's no longer a man, until his organs are visible and bones are exposed.
And then I stop.
His body is now limp, demolished, a disheveled corpse.
"Go fuck yourself in Hell for me," I say, looking into his lifeless eyes, frozen, still, dead.
I take a moment to breathe, admire, appreciate—breathe.
Perfect.
I get off his body, and sit on the couch, wiping his blood from the knife on the fabric. The clock ticks again, and I sigh, and wait, smile. I tap my heels once more, clicking the lamp switch on and off, picking away his remains from under my black painted nails.
And then, I hear her, pulling up into the driveway, her car lights hitting the front window. My heart pounds against my chest again, starving for a second meal. I quickly click the lamp switch off, hold the blade in my hands. Her car door slams shut, and I wait, wait to hear her footsteps, to hear his wife unlock the front door, to come in.
Tick, tock. Tick…tock.
Tick…
She's here.