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Blood on her Hands
He's staring at me again. Those beady little eyes of his follow my every move and make me pray for the disinfectant sting of the showers. I know what he's thinking. What he's always thinking in some perverted way or other. Sex. Rough and humiliating, and the only way he can think of to put me in my place.
He's wrong, of course. He could fuck me 'til the cows came home and it still wouldn't make him any more of a man, or me any less of a dyke. No that he'd try it. He might fantasize and torment, but he knows that if he ever tried to put his sick dreams into action, I'd kill him.
And I'd make him suffer first.
I might not be a Dockley shade of insane but I'd carve him up like a turkey and smile while I was doing it. He knows it. I know it. Helen knows it. That's one of the differences between her and me; she'd fight and scream but she'd never exact that kind of revenge. She's never wiped someone else's blood off her hands and felt good doing it.
Not that I'm a stone cold killer, despite whatever the judge might have said, but once you've taken a life you're never the same. Every life we see is marked by its fragility; one push, one shove, one bottle slicing through the jugular and everything ends. Them, me, all of us, little more than victims waiting to be skewered.
I imagine what he'd look like with his beady little eyes on the ends of cocktail sticks, a cartoon ending for a cartoon villain. I shouldn't smile. The thoughts in my head are scaring even me but the image of his tattered body is a welcome relief from his living smile.
He and I are both killers but the biggest difference, the one I'd never dare mention to her, is that I don't need his false sense of control to exact my vengeance. If the time ever comes, his blood will wipe off just as easily as Gossard's.
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