It was less dramatic than I had envisioned. I had imagined groans, yells, pleads for mercy, but there was none of it. The most I heard was a pitiful groan as I plunged the cold, serrated blade into his gut. He knew it was coming, knew but did nothing to protect himself. He let me stab him willingly, almost praying to do it quickly, having nothing more to gain from another day, each breath becoming a burden.
I had loved him, or so I thought, when I first saw him that night at the club. I had just turned twenty-one a few months before, and since then, I had become regular at all the hotspots, enjoying the life of a single woman, single but beautiful. I say that not because I’m vain, but because it was the truth.
He was older, much older, nearing forty. He was lean and fit, and had a roguish smile to match his boyish looks. He was unshaven, but fashionably so, with a touch of gray that punctuated his demeanor. He was older. He had lived, but he was raring for another adventure, it was evident in the glint in his eye.
I fell for him, though my friends warned me about him. “He’s a whore,” my friend Sandy whispered in my ear as he made eyes with me. “A total pussy hound,” agreed Lana.”
But I couldn’t help myself. I was drawn to him. It was as if here was a force between us, a gravity that pulled us together, or a strange magnetism that only worked on me. In spite of the warnings my friend told me, I met him, danced with him, and before I was even aware of it, moaning as he hiked up my skirt to enter me behind the club. It was not romantic in the least, but it was risky and adventurous, and I had always wanted to be that kind of girl.
He used me, and I knew it. He used me and discarded me. I didn’t mind in the least. I had used him as well. I didn’t see him for months, but then one night I was him, at another club, leading another conquest out the door before he saw me. He recognized me, winked, and with the merest nod, motioned for me to join. I did.
This time we made it to a studio apartment not far from the club. It was hers. I had never been with a woman, but with him there it came naturally. It went on for hours, and after it was done, I left with him, leaving the other behind as though she was simply a toy that had worn out its usefulness.
So we started dating. I call it dating, but I don’t really know what it was. I was faithful to him, but he slept around, no questions asked. Sometimes I joined, but most of the time I didn’t. After a few months he moved in with me, and again no questions asked. I got pregnant within another month, and he forced me to abort the baby, though I was strictly pro-life. I couldn’t say no to him. Denying him was not an option.
I could go on, but sufficed to say that this went on for years. I dropped out of school, found a job, and supported the both of us on my meager wages. I lost contact with my family after they refused to support me with my decision to drop out and support my man. At the time I didn’t understand, but I came to realize that I was being used, but that was years down the line.
What opened my eyes, I’m ashamed to admit, was discovering his other girls around town. I’m not talking the one-night stands. I knew about those, but it was learning that he had other women supporting him, other homes where he lived. I wasn’t even his main girl, but a side bitch that he used whenever his wife threw him out. I never knew he was married. I had learned not to ask questions.
When he turned up, we got into a fight, our first, and I demanded that he leave and never come back. It wasn’t pleasant, mainly because he didn’t tolerate my nonsense, as he called it. He hit me, and not for the first time. He pushed me down, punched me repeatedly in the stomach, and slapped me hard enough to leave a handprint on my right cheek, but not quite enough to bruise me.
I tried to get away, but he pulled me back, laughing as he did so, calling me his little cunt, and used me right there. I had grown accustomed to his being rough with me, but this went beyond his usual treatment. This was revenge for me daring to stand up to him. He was punishing me for trying to question his manhood. He believed it was his right to sleep with as many women as possible. He claimed it as a God-given command.
When he left, he threatened that if I called the police, that he would make sure that not only would I suffer for it, but that my parents, who I had not seen in years, would bear the brunt of his displeasure. They would die horrific deaths, and that I would be forced to watch. I was his to use, and I had better learn my place.
I cried when he left. I curled up in the shower, letting the water cascade over my battered body, attempting to wash away what he had did to me. After the hot water was used up, I stood up, shivering as the cold water hit me, waking me up to the truth of my situation. I shut off the water, looked at myself for the first time in years. I looked horrible. I was not even twenty-five, but I looked forty, and not in a good way.
I called in to work and plotted my revenge. I was planning on waiting for him to return, whether that night or a week, as it was not unusual for him to disappear for days at a time. I planned on letting him use me, and when the time was right, to cut off his manhood. I wanted him to lose his gift to women. I wanted him to be useless.
And the moment came, and I chickened out. I couldn’t do that to him. It was cruel, and I had allowed myself to fall for it all. I was to blame for it all, though to call him innocent was beyond ridiculous. He needed to suffer, and as he started to leave, I called out to him, cold steel in my hand, and thrust it forward when he turned to face me.
I felt the rush of adrenaline as I felt his blood run down my hand. He shuddered as he tried to remain upright, groaning as I pushed the blade even further. It lasted only moments before he buckled and fell to the floor, grabbing my wrist and dragging me down with him. He didn’t say a word, but held fast as he struggled to breath. He looked me in the eye, forcing me to watch as something in him dimmed and then was gone. One moment he was there, and then he wasn’t.
I looked down on him, angry at the anti-climax of the moment. I had killed him, but there was nothing to show for it, no pleading for his life, no apologies for his actions. He died without so much of a betrayal of emotion. I wondered as I stared at his corpse, whether he had wanted someone to become a murderer because of him. I laughed.
I was found laughing on the floor next to him, though I have no recollection. I had killed him and didn’t bother to close the door. My neighbor saw me laughing hysterically, or so I’ve been told, laughing and crying, rocking back and forth and wringing my hands. I had the appearance of a deranged woman, and maybe I am.
I feel no remorse for killing him, only for having lost all those years because of him. I reconnected with my family, and they are fighting for my life, for my freedom, but I confess I don’t care much about that or anything. I’ve lost something of myself when I killed him. I’ve become untethered to this existence, and maybe that’s why I’m in this place, enduring one doctor after another, suffering through one therapist after another.
I don’t feel much at all, other than a faint shadow of guilt for putting my family through all this. I don’t feel much at all, anymore. I can still feel him, from beyond the veil, pulling me with him. I can feel his fingers around my wrist, and I yearn to join him, hating him for it, but I cannot resist. I am powerless to say no, and I’m compelled to obey.
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