English is such a strange language. We don’t have a word that describes the butterflies in your stomach, we willfully chose not to called a “Pineapple” “Anana”, but we have a word that means both “disembowelment” and “eye surgery”.
Needless to say, I’m very glad that my
search history is not tracked in any way. I don’t think I could handle the embarrassment.
On the plus side: my murder den is officially
up and running. I took James on a tour of the place last week and we christened
it before heading out to find our first victim. It seemed only right that I let
him choose the inaugural human whose life whom I would experiment upon.
I also hate English grammar – in case you
never noticed before. It’s just ridiculous. So long as the other person
understand what you’re saying, who cares if I end my sentence with a preposition
or dangle a participle? I’d much rather end lives and dangle bodies.
…
I am so sorry. The joke was right there and
demanded that I make it. Please keep reading.
I’ve always found it very sexy when James
picks out victims for me. It’s a kind of foreplay, it helps to build the anticipation.
Over the years, I’ve also discovered how much James likes to watch me work. I’m
grateful he hasn’t done too much hands-on work – I like to think I’m keeping
him as safe as possible by keeping his hands clean (relatively speaking). It
also means there’s a sexual tension weaved into our murders which I used to
find off-putting.
Look, I know a lot of people think there’s
a sexual element to serial murder. And for a lot of murderers, there absolutely
is. But not for me. Genuinely. I don’t find sexual satisfaction from gutting
someone. Fascination, curiosity, satisfaction, joy. But the only thing I find
sexy is the way my husband comes up from behind and whispers his orders in my
ear. The way I’ll drive slowly down the street until he leans across my body to
point at the stranger coming out of a shop and definitively says: “him”.
The way I can feel his eyes on me as I
stumble across the street, taking on the guise of a woman in distress, knowing
that my husband is watching me. Only the two of us know our little secret. I’ll
admit, I get a shiver of anticipation upon seeing his smirk of pride when I
successfully pull the stranger into the back of the car, closing the trap door.
Many times, James won’t dictate how I kill
or what actions I take once I’ve t successfully captured my victim. He knows
that this is my element and he trusts my expertise (which is an aphrodisiac in
and of itself) but every once in a while, I like letting him take complete
control.
Tonight was not this night.
Tonight (and by “tonight” I mean Saturday
night), he helped me drag my victim into the murder den and then sat back and
watched while I went about my work.
Which brings me back to my hatred for the English
language. I went and Googled “evisceration” for instructions on how to disembowel
someone and found information on removing an eyeball and naturally got
distracted. I never knew I had a dream of removing someone’s eyeball with an
ice cream scoop but now I do.
It feels nice to achieve my dreams. Even
small ones.
This year has been so shitty when it comes
to feeling a sense of freedom and normalcy so it felt like a treat to myself. I
got to have a night of fun with my husband, a stranger, and an ice cream scoop –
and, just, so much blood.
So much blood.
I love it.
My point is…
Make yourself attainable goals and English is
a stupid language.
As always, dear readers,
Stay Safe
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