WHEN I WAS A YOUNG CHILD, I WAS FILLED WITH untenable rage. It crashed through my system like a hurricane, lighting up every single nerve and throwing it into chaos.
I was angry.
Angry at my parents, whomever they were, for giving me up as soon as I was born.
Angry at them for dropping me in a dumpster, like it was just that easy to take back the gift of life.
Angry at the people who found me and took me to that terrible orphanage instead of anywhere else.
And angry at the world for not giving me anyone who cared when I ran away from that horrid place at seven years old.
It was only when I found seminary that I was able to compartmentalize properly. To take things apart, analyze them, and then put them back together, fitting them into a new mold and learning that if I put all my faith in Him, He wouldn’t lead me astray.
Because He cares. And He forgives.
The reason became clear one night during prayer, my insides aching with scars as I asked why? And I heard His voice as surely as my own, whispering the answers.
It was an epiphany realizing that all the pain, all the strife, all the unfairness of life was thrust upon me because I was His loyal soldier: here to experience the worst of the worst and come out stronger. To recognize it within myself so I could help heal it in others. I fell into the role effortlessly, and for a brief moment in time, I believed I was cured myself.
But then another voice slithered its way back into my head, one that convinced me healing them wasn’t enough. A need, putrid and violent, rose up inside me like it never left, and when I took a nighttime walk to try and cast it away, whatever it was took the reins instead.
That was the first night I killed a man.
It felt incredible. I reasoned away the guilt while it was happening, that voice in my head saying it was our duty. That he was sick with demons, the same way I was as a boy.
“There’s a sickness in you, child, and God wants me to beat it out.”
Sister Agnes’s voice murmured in my head, telling me I was doing the right thing.
The righteous thing.
It was only once the adrenaline left and the thrill of holding another man’s life in my hands faded away that I was able to feel the gaping hole of truth.
There’s still a sickness in me too.
So I went home, and I beat it out.
The cycle continues to this day, but none of it—not a single moment of that anger—compares to the fury that’s coursing through me at the sight of another man touching Amaya in the private rooms at the Chapel and her liking it.
They’re both lucky that she came to her senses before I could rip open the curtain and tear his eyeballs from his sockets. Even now, as I wait for her in the back alley, I’m shaking with the unsteady feeling.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, and visions of her eyes closed, mouth parted, and chest flushed with her arousal flash through my mind, my chest burning with jealousy.
Footsteps crunch over the gravel, the slush of melted ice audible as someone walks close by. My back straightens from where I’m leaned against the wall, hidden beside the large green dumpster.
It stinks, but I ignore the stench.
And then there that enfoiré is, standing at the edge of the building, watching the employee entrance like a dog waiting for its master.
My teeth grind together.
Is he waiting for her?
He shouldn’t be allowed to breathe the same air as her, let alone touch her. And just because I can’t have her doesn’t mean anyone else can.
I breathe deeply, trying to find my center or a justification for why I should absolutely walk out there and take this man’s life, for any reason other than touching what I wish I could have. I cannot take a soul for selfish gain.
He’s married, I reason with myself. That much is obvious by the gold wedding band on his finger, and adultery is a sin.
Righteousness swarms through my veins, and I straighten my spine, flexing my fingers in my gloves as my purpose locks in place.
This man needs his demons freed.
Before I can make another move, Amaya comes rushing out the back door, my hand flying to my chest when I see her. The pinch of my heart turns to indignation when I see the man move forward, gripping her again with his filthy fingers and pulling her against him like he deserves her warmth.
He pushes her into the concrete wall and then drags her farther around the corner, hidden from view and away from the security cameras lining the parking lot, and the burning in my chest explodes in a fiery blast.
I don’t have any weapons on me. Honestly, I never do. Part of the satisfaction comes from experiencing the bones breaking and cartilage crunching beneath my hands. The act of feeling the demons detaching from the soul and scampering back to their place in hell beside the devil is all part of the whole.
But now, I fear, I am the devil.
My fist slams against the side of the large green dumpster, the boom echoing down the alley, and then I’m walking toward them before I can stop myself, a red haze clinging to my vision and envy scratching against my skin.
I barely notice when Amaya gets free from his grasp and races away, I’m so laser- focused on my goal.
He moves to follow, but then I’m there, my gloved hand wrapping around the back of his neck and tugging harshly, his short and stocky frame flying through the air until it’s him that’s shoved against the brick.
“What the fuck?” he yelps.
He struggles almost immediately, and the scabbed- over wounds on my back stretch and rip, making me suck in a sharp breath. But the pain fuels me.
He is merciful.
My forearm presses into the man’s windpipe as I shush him.
“Shh, mort vivant,” I murmur quietly as I increase the pressure on his throat.
My other hand reaches down and grips his disgusting prick, enraged that it got hard for her. That it was so close to her sweet and sinful cunt— the one that I’m dying to taste.
I twist, trying to rip it off his body, until his face turns red and his mouth opens in a silent scream. I assume it would be louder, but his vocal cords are compressed by the immense pressure of me cutting off his air supply with my forearm.
“Tell me, do you pray?” My voice is low and silky, and I let his groin go, moving my free hand up to pat the side of his cheek instead. “Non, it doesn’t matter,” I continue. “I want you to know something.” Leaning in, I press my lips against the side of his ear, his body flailing against my grasp. “You will die tonight.”
As soon as I release the pressure on his throat, he drops to the ground, his hands flying to his groin and cupping while he writhes in pain.
I step forward, my shadow looming over him, nothing but a single flickering yellow streetlamp there to illuminate his fear.
“I– I…please,” he stutters.
His begging makes me smile, but I need him to stay quiet. Reaching around my neck, I unwrap my long scarf and shove it into his mouth until he’s gagging on the fabric.
He groans, although it’s muffled, and I crouch down, my knee pressing into his sternum and the bottom of my coat dusting along the wet concrete. I reach out, gripping his hand in mine, bending his wrist at an angle that keeps him immobile in my grasp.
“I’m jealous of your hands,” I note, resting the palm of mine against his, trying to steal the memory of her skin from his. “And I don’t enjoy being envious. It’s a nasty emotion.”
I bend his pointer finger back harshly until the snap of his bone reverberates off the brick.
He screams but it’s barely audible behind the makeshift gag.
“If you stop fighting, this will go faster,” I muse, leaning more of my body weight into him while I straighten his middle finger and repeat the snapping motion. A rush of satisfaction floods through me at the sound of the fracture.
Another muffled scream.
And then a different noise, one in the distance but close enough to cause concern. Muted laughter and voices.
Sighing, I glance back down to my victim, disappointment mixing with the adrenaline when I realize I’ll need to end this quicker than I’d like. Normally, I’d have ensured we were in a place more private, but this kill is fueled by passion, and it’s made me sloppy.
I release his mangled fingers and drop them to the ground where they fall limp to the side. His eyes are bloodshot, tears slipping down the side of his cheek and hitting the concrete beneath him, and I cluck my tongue.
“A quick death is more than you deserve.”
Leaning in, I slip the scarf from his mouth and wrap it around his throat. I crisscross the ends, one in each hand, and pull, soaking in the way his body jerks and flails beneath me as his throat is crushed from the soft fabric. His eyes bulge, and his mouth parts.
The sound of him unable to breathe and the sight of him realizing these are his last moments make my cock harden and my spine tingle with pleasure.
It’s erotic taking a life.
And then he falls silent, his body dropping limp until he’s prone and still on the cold, wet ground.
It’s not enough to temper the jealousy of having Amaya on his lap and in his grasp, but it will have to do.
Standing up, I brush down the front of my pants and rebutton my coat. There’s wetness seeping down my back from where a few of my newer lashes split open, but I ignore them. They’ll be worse by the end of the night anyway.
I don’t bother to clean up the body, instead heaving him into the giant dumpster and leaving him there to rot, just like he deserves.
When I make my way back to Festivalé, I debate on heading straight to Amaya’s. To suffocate her the same way I did him. It isn’t fair that she gets to live while torturing me this way.
But I’m starting to realize that when it comes to her, I am weak in every way that matters. And I’m wondering if I’ll be able to kill her at all.
