I didn't mean to, I swear.
Well, at least I think I didn't mean to. I might have said it before 'I want him dead', or 'I could kill him for.. (insert random reasoning here)' but I never meant it. No, I swear to you now, that I didn't. He was silly; he never meant to hurt me. He was just clumsy.
Then again, so was I, wasn't I? How else would I wind up in this mess?
I can hide the body, that's not a problem-- just dump it in the nearby river with some cement shoes like my uncle taught me.
I suppose you're asking yourself what a nice girl like me doing covered in blood and glitter, surrounded by the remnants of sex and dead things.
It's his fault.
I fell in love with him before I ever met him. He was a famous writer of some sort, a cruel bastard. I think that was what first attracted me to him. He amused me for hours, sometimes days. He told me everything my little insecure ears needed to hear. He made me this bitch that I am today. I think I might always love him for that.
Even in death.
Last night he came to me again and told me the same as he usually did; what he wanted to see me in and what time he'd be appear to pick me up. He knew how I loved dressing for him, he knew the thought of slowly and carefully applying make up and glamour was one my favorite parts of the ritual. I knew he loved it when I took the extra time just for him. Tonight he demanded glitter, little shiny mirrors, reflecting his own image back at him a thousand times over. What more could the egotistical bastard want?
His car appeared promptly at eight. I got in alone and didn't ask the driver where we were going.
I never asked. I knew better than to question him or his plans. He never liked having to take the time to answer them anyway.
When we stopped, I wasn't sure where I was. I guess it didn't matter to me. I assumed he would be there waiting for me with some sort of instructions like he usually was. This time he wasn't there; instead, I was handed an envelope by the driver and told to get out and wait.
Was I meant to open the envelope and see what was inside? Or was I just meant to wait?
I opened it. I had to know if there was a reason for my standing on a dark city street alone. I hated waiting and he knew it.
I might have said it for the first time that night, right then, as I opened the letter and began to read.
"You bastard, I'll kill you when I get my hands on you," the words came muttered under my breath, in between long drags on my cigarette.
Still, I said it. I must have. But I didn't mean it, not like this.
The letter was standard. It wasn't even hand written, but I knew it was from him. It explained that he wouldn't be joining me till later, but wanted me to first entertain someone for him.
I already knew what he was getting at.
So I smoked cigarette after cigarette waiting for the stranger. It didn't matter to me, because it was what he wanted of me. I'd been through this before. None of it was shocking, or new.
And I waited, god how I hate waiting. I wanted the stranger to be him, it wasn't. I could pretend, because that was what he wanted.
Eventually a man appeared around the corner, walking with purpose, his long legs striding towards me. He stopped entirely too close to me, put his arms around me, and kissed me long and full on my lips, causing me to choke on the smoke still in my lungs from the last drag I had taken from my cigarette. This didn't stop him from groping me as I coughed and sputtered. He ushered me into a car that had stopped at the curb. I thought it was a taxi, but I wasn't looking.
He told me what he wanted from. He told me how I was to please him and said that he couldn't wait. I did as I was instructed and gave myself over to him; it was that easy.
Within an hour, I was standing back on the street, waiting for his car to come back and get me. Never once knowing even the name of the strange man who had just taken me. Never once caring what his face was like, or anything about him after all, it wasn't him.
His car appeared not long after. He was in it this time, dressed in black like the bad guy from some fucking movie. He didn't have to tell me to get in, I just did. He didn't tell me what I had to do, I knew. I loved when he grabbed me by my hair and pushed me between his legs.
It was a beautiful sort of feeling; to know he wanted me that badly, that he couldn't even wait, that he couldn't contain himself. I let myself get lost in it -- the biting, the licking, the sucking. I didn't notice the blood; not at first, not until later.
This one time I went too far. He started screaming.