There must be some of us who have the desire to hurt a soul, to destroy the ones that had bruised us the most. I cannot speak for all, but you must understand what it feels like; that pain of utter deceit. It’s as if your heart has been ripped by the seams, torn from its veins and eaten by wolves as a knife twists inside your body, in an open, bloody wound. It’s a cruel act, isn’t it; the betrayal, the dishonesty, being thrown by the neck to drown in the Nile? And it’s all because you desired to live in solace with the one person you loved, with the one person who was your sole reason for existing. So here I am, here I sit, wondering why my heart has blackened at the root.
I’ve been masking this sin for months, waiting to express my hidden rage every time his lips devoured mine, every time his fingertips grazed along the skin of my chest.
Every day he comes home to me, drops his briefcase by the front door, loosens his tie, and kisses my neck as my hands soak in dishwater, washing the pot he “couldn’t” clean. Every day he comes home to me, asks to serve him his dinner, and devour my inner thighs as I stare at an empty abyss, waiting for his cum to mark my hole after just a few seconds of being inside of me. Every day he comes home to me, waiting for me to be on my fucking knees as if he’s the only human that must be worshiped.
I guess I must apologize for my language, but you see, I’m not the one to be blamed for my future crime. He’s the one who lies and neglects the wife he comes home to, fucking other women before telling me he loves me, eating different pussies on a full belly every night. He’s the one who shoves my body around like an old, damaged antique, a thing only needed for his satisfaction when he couldn’t get it from his hoes. He’s the one who grips my throat and pins me against the wall from time to time, bruising flesh and a fearful soul, slashing air from my lungs as he longs to be appreciated, and not for me to be opinionated. I was once in love with a man who respected and accepted all of me, who knew what it was like to be damaged by childhood woes and ruthless expectations I could never meet, who understood life as a blessing rather than a rude awakening. But he took all my fears and became each and every one of them, breaking and breaking and breaking all that I was until he thought I couldn’t fight, until he thought I couldn’t win the battle.
But of course, all this wasn’t true. That rage inside me, that detrimental and gut-wrenching pain became a driving force to strike against his heartless being, to terrorize this man and what he has done to a woman who only loved, suddenly noticing that he became an abusive fuck of a husband. He seriously underestimates me if he thinks I would actually put up with his shit. And now all I feel, every time he kisses the span of my torso, every time his hands travel between my legs and I moan with false satisfaction, is hatred, a lustful desire to rip open his flesh and taste his blood, having him limp and dead before me. Now, wouldn’t that be a sight to see.
So as he lays here in bed, his callous fingers touching my soft skin, his round frame pressing against the thin, silk material of my nightgown, his chapped lips licking along my shoulder blades, I close my eyes and wait for the right moment, for the right time. I let him take control of the steady pace, honestly loving the way he massages my breasts and devours my skin, anticipating moments where I need to sigh and moan. And I count each time, each time he roughly bites my neck, each time he attempts to inflict satisfaction between my legs as if anything he’s doing is arousing or pleasing my body.
Then, he’s on top of me, his weight heavy against my own, applying pressure to my lungs as they struggle to breathe underneath. But I touch his manhood before he can commit the act, and he releases pressure so I can roll him onto his back, him smiling to the idea of me riding his small ego.
I’m happy to say this is the perfect time to do the deed.
I let him taste me, holding onto the window sill above to pretend I’m enjoying his actions. But of course, he doesn’t notice me promptly retrieving the blade I placed there before he got home, hidden under books that he wouldn’t care to touch. And just before I feel him begin to enter me, watching him close his eyes to that utter bliss of mere anticipation, I grip the knife in my hand with seething teeth and quickly, plunge it deep into his chest.
He gasps, sucking in a vast amount of air, eyes snapping open to meet mine in shock, and stares at the knife twisting into his flesh with the inability to fathom my deceit. The thickness of his dark blood causes me to release a pleasurable moan, enjoying the sight of liquid coating my hands, and seeping through the sheets of the bed.
He attempts to fight back, his body moving against my own as he reaches to grab a fistful amount of my hair, desiring to tear out strands and cause me pain. But I will never give him the advantage to do so, pulling out the weapon and driving it into his shoulder, hearing him scream in what seemed like a distant roar, thirsting for his pain and craving for his blood. It flows like a never-ending current, splashing against my breasts, dripping from the tips of my fingers, drowning between our bodies like warm puddles in May.
I hush him as I continue to slaughter his corpse, whispering curses of love and hatred, hexing his damned being into the wrath of Hell. His limbs are now limp, his eyes are now empty souls, his mouth is now gaped open as if forming the word “love” in his own cynical manner. God, how pathetic, still asking me to fuck him, love him, care for him, nurture him…you sick fuck!
But I drop the weapon before I myself can whimper, finally breathing once I’ve done all I can do, energy draining from my muscles now covered in his worthless mess. I roll off of him and lay there beside his remains, my hair devouring the dark substance as I reach out to stroke his cheek, admiring my work.
He’s currently still, unmoving, completely destroyed by my doing, pieces of his flesh drenching pillows, kissing his beautiful body. But he still looks like my husband, the one I married and fell in love with, the one who made me laugh under sunsets and smile during sunrises, loving my quirks and silly desires. I can’t help but feel that pain again, engulfing my veins and soaking my bones, dying to be released from the walls and chains that constrict my being. I shake my head in dismay, and lean over to kiss his cold cheek, tears suddenly emerging from the corner of my eyelids as pain and sole agony settles in.
“And yet, I still love you,” I say, “and yet, I still care.”
Orginally published by my pen name Celena Woods in 2019. Edited and revised in 2022. https://celenawoods.wixsite.com/mypersonalescape
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