Why I Kill

People ask me why I take pleasure in killing men. What is it about the crime that makes my toes curl, my eyes darken? Why do I enjoy taking their power away, the one thing that makes them men? Why do I crave their blood, feast on their pain, thirst their screams and their heartless, delicious bodies?

That’s a difficult question to answer. I usually shrug and smile, give a pitiful explanation that I don’t actually believe.

The truth in the matter is that men seem to always disappoint, even when you think they wouldn’t.

It’s not particularly their fault.

Since the very beginning of time, men are taught to disappoint. They were taught to believe they were worthy of anything, that they have every right to be on the most powerful pedestal in the world, that they deserve the throne. They were taught that women are inferior, nothing but sexual objects for the purpose of pleasuring men, to birth babies until their pussies were practically corpses in tombs. They were taught to be insensitive to traumas, to suck in their emotional woes and call themselves “men” because that’s what “men” do. They were taught to pin women as victims, and pin themselves as victims so they wouldn’t be perceived as predators, which is inevitably, the true nature of their existence. The world already labeled them as kings, monarchs, and throughout their whole lives, they actually believed they were.

I’m not blaming them for society’s stupidity. That’s silly of me to do. In fact, most men aren’t patriarchs. Some even have the rare ability to respect, idolize, and appreciate women, treasure their mothers and all their endeavors to destroy toxic masculinity.

But there are those who haven’t learned their lesson, those who still paint themselves with authority, disrupting and silencing the innocent, torturing the bodies of women until their skin bleeds, their bones bruise, until their screams are too unbearable to handle. I know what it’s like for a man to come into your life and fool you with his lovesick notes and lustful kisses. I know what it’s like for a man to whisper lies and elicit facades for the sake of owning your body, scarring your mind. I know what it’s like for a man to deem your needs as ridiculous, idiotic, womanly, and demented, having to succumb to his every need like a fucking puppy on the street, as if pleasing him will make him give a shit. I’ve fought until my flesh darkened. I’ve screamed until my throat closed. He made me the victim because he didn’t want to be, always in need of control, always craving validation of what he was worth and how much it would hurt if I lost him.

I’ve traveled down countless roads with many ugly men, always believing that every single pathway was different. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that all of them are one in the same. And because I know many women who have dealt with these men, those who could care less about a woman’s needs, only looking after themselves, I did what I thought was the only reasonable thing to do in any given situation; kill them.

And of course, I make it count:

I slowly walk through the crowd unnoticed, watch this man’s movements, observe his ways.

He’s chatting with a colleague at the bar, chuckling at a joke he made, loosening his tie for air. He didn’t pick the right tux I presume, a little too tight for his balls to breathe. He’s been drinking to make this time enjoyable, sipping a glass of champagne as if he’s a gentleman with class, his Adam’s apple bobbing whenever he swallows, or speaks of politics.

He runs his hands through his hair when a blonde woman approaches, slicking it back as if that will do anything to perfect his appearance. She waves her hand to signal the bartender, and tugs on her bottom lip when he compliments her dress, the way her breasts pop out of the fabric. He completely ignores his colleague who’s currently working hard to impress, and then turns his attention back to the conversation once the woman leaves the counter to see her husband.

Blondes are not his type anyway.

I make my way out of the crowd, just enough for him to notice. He catches my eye across the dance floor, and I look at him with intention, utter desire. His dark eyes drink in my presence, observe the movement of my curves in the backless silk dress, the luscious locks of my wig that drifts down my shoulders, the fullness of my lips draped in deep, glossy lipstick. He’s in awe, quite astounded by a woman he’s apparently never seen before.

It’s interesting what a few good years would do to you, how easy it is to fool the worthless.

I walk towards the opposite end of the bar as if needing to be approached by a man ogling my appearance. Before I can signal the bartender, he leaves his colleague and stalks towards me, smoothing back his hair.

“A woman should never be alone at a bar,” he says to me, charming me with his crooked smile and epic jaw line.

I raise my eyebrows, “Who says I’m alone?”

He looks around with humor, gesturing towards the crowd, “I don’t see anyone claiming you. It shouldn’t be taking this long to stop a hunk like me flirt with a beautiful woman like…you.”

I roll my eyes inside my head, remembering how terrible his pickup lines could be. I ignore his attempt, and step towards him, smoothing out his tie with a tug on my bottom lip.

“What I meant was,” I lean into him, “who says I’m alone…now?”

It took him a minute to understand my intention, finally asking me to dance once a new song starts to play on stage.

He’s quite easy to seduce, you see, as they all are. A man who loves to silence women, and leave them crawling by their feet is just as stupid as the next boy. Men like to think a woman’s body never lies.

Before the music ends, I’ve already convinced him to take me as his in the women’s bathroom. I felt him up as we danced, making sure I laughed at all his corny jokes and reciprocated his desire for sex. He almost recognized me, however, wondering if he’s ever met a woman like me before. But I diverted the conversation by whispering naughty things in his ear, even saying I could be whoever he wants me to be, if that’s what he truly desires.

I check some of the stalls to make sure no one were in them, locking the door behind us. I look at myself in the mirror, and watch him come up behind me. He kisses my bare shoulders, licks my neck, and runs his hands along my waist and curves.

“You’re so fuckin’ sexy,” he whispers, a line he would tell all the women he fucked.

He used to do this; be gentle, takes it slow, whispers compliments and promises into my ear until heat transpired, and I was no longer in control. He’s a clever man in that way, always ambitious in the bedroom, needing to have the throne.

He turns me around, lifts me up on the counter, and smashes his lips against mine. I pretend to enjoy the exchange like I used to. I kiss him back; begin to drown into this sort of ecstasy he’s creating. I moan at perfect times, and compliment him when needed. I make sure he’s hard, distracted by my motions and pleas, letting him even suck a nipple.

Then I do what I came here to do.

I pull him close so he wouldn’t notice my hand moving up my right leg, and retrieve a blade from my garter. I moan louder so his eyes remained close while he sucks and tongues my skin. I even pull on his hair so I can expose the side of his neck as he does what he thinks he does best. And then I thrust the knife perfectly into his throat, puncturing that juicy jugular vein.

His eyes widen once I take out the weapon, blood spewing out of his body like a rose on its deathbed. His hand covers the wound as his mouth fills with delicious thick blood in a matter of seconds, choking on his own mess, tasting the vileness of his own doing. He stumbles back into a stall like a fool, and I smile when another one opens.

Whoops! My bad. I guess I forgot to check one.

She looks at me in horror, but I remain unfazed when I get off the counter and fix my dress. She steps out and walks over to him, and he almost falls in the toilet when he sees her; his lovely, beautiful wife.

He looks over to me, his eyes popping out of its sockets, also realizing who I was. I take off my wig in a sigh.

“Ah, now you recognize me,” I stand next to his wife, releasing my dark, curly locks. “I can’t say I don’t love a reunion, darling. I’m glad you remember the ex you used to beat.”

I stare at him as he struggles to process his current predicament. His wife is unable to speak, paralyzed by the committed crime as if she’s forgotten our arrangement, as if we haven’t discussed what’s going to become of his demise, and what should remain of him once it was done. She wanted it to be simple. Though, I’m not one to particularly like a single laceration. I’d rather slaughter a man until his guts cover mine. But I have to say, there is something about a man’s blood spitting out of his neck that makes my mouth water, my breath hitch. It’s quite incredible how one impalement can almost lead to a complete drain of blood.

I kneel in front of him; grip his bloody chin so he can look at me, at us. “This is what you get for trying to silence us women,” I snarl. “You never learned to tend to our needs, and now look at yourself. So weak.”

He looks at his wife, blood gurgling out of his mouth as if he wants to say something to her, or mainly, for her to do something. But she only stares in disgust now, not giving him the satisfaction he’s always going to crave.

So we watch, watch until he takes his last pitiful breath, until his body ceases convulsion, until his eyes are empty, cold, completely lifeless. I become fascinated by the puddles created on the bathroom floor, his warm blood seeping into the crevices of the baby blue tiles, creating beguiled art around the corpse.

“Do you think he’s going to rot in Hell?” his wife asks suddenly, still fixated on the body.

I snap myself out of my trance. I stand up to go to the marbled sink, wash away the blood on my hands, “I mean, the men I’ve dated do. If they don’t, I make them.”

I watch her fall to her knees in the mirror, and stifle a laugh. She knows why I do what I do. And in her defense, there’s nothing more humorous than getting what she’s always wanted.

“I wonder who is next,” she says.

I smile at my reflection, “Oh, I always have someone in mind. I never lose inspiration.”

Originally published in 2020 under my pen name Celena Woods.

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: