Chapter 1:The Life

The family next door is at it again. The hollering and battering seem to increase in frequency these days. Maybe the wife didn't put enough salt in the food or maybe she smiled for too long at the shopkeeper. It could be that the husband came an hour later than he should have or maybe he had the stench of some cheap whore; her words, not mine. The reasons for their fights are becoming more and more idiotic as time passes however their fights grow more violent. Yesterday a knife flew out the window almost nicked my face, good times. They are the reason I open my windows at night, such entertainment is scarce, and missing it would be a bummer.

They are a young couple, just got married. I wonder how long they will last. Maybe they will kill each other before one of them gets to leave. I hope I see it, blood everywhere. The wife or husband trying their best to explain that they had temporarily blacked out from anger or alcohol. That the last thing they remembered was arguing and the next thing they heard was the police sirens. My money is on the wife I see the way she looks at me when I pass close to her husband she has murder in her mind. I want to be her friend.

My wall shook from impact from the other side the lack of screams means the wife was the one who threw something that probably missed the husband and landed on the wall. From the vibrations on my end, it must have been something heavy, you go girl! The noise woke up my boyfriend who had been out cold. God damn it! I had to stuff his mouth before he fully came around. I grabbed the expensive scarf that he had given me as a present and shoved it down his throat just as he was about to scream. The scarf muffed his screams reducing them to barely audible whispers of terror.

His eyes darted left and right trying and failing to fully gauge the situation and finally settling for looking at me with pleading eyes. Of course, he could not remember how he had ended up tied to my bed unable to move a muscle. A surprisingly helpful YouTube tutorial on how to make chloroform at home helped with that. A kiss with a twist is what I will always fondly call it. It started with a kiss and ended up with him unconscious. Both his legs and hand were bound together with a rope that went around his torso restricting all and every movement. The rope had been expensive and another tutorial later I was an expert on tying immovable knots. The things one could learn from the internet these days were immeasurable.

He began struggling against the ropes, twisting his body violently as he attempted to set himself free. He looked like a tapeworm trying to crawl out of somebody's ass. Thrashing left and right, wriggling back and forth, truly entertaining stuff. I watched fascinated by just how much pain his body could take before he gave up on attempting to escape. There was no way the rope would give way, I made sure of that. He struggled for five more minutes which allowed me to make an egg sandwich. I had skipped lunch in favor of seducing him to come to my apartment. I hated skipping meals, healthy eating habits were important.

He was a skilled master of playing hard to get and that was the entirety of his charm most of which had been reduced to shit. I liked him because I could never really have him. He was always closed off, giving off this air of alluring mystery. Like a cave filled with tantalizing and morbid secrets. Turns out he was a basic dog whose idea of fun was cheating on his wife and like the majority of useless men out here having sex with a younger female seemed to be some sort of accomplishment.

When I found out he was married after a deep dive in the web, he went from a world-weary lawyer who had seen the vilest parts of humanity and yet somehow managed to smile and love to a middle-aged man undergoing a midlife crisis and whose brilliant solution was to fuck a younger girl and mess up his otherwise perfect life. In other words, he went from a desirable mature man to an old and miserable fuck up. A fuck up that needed to be taught a lesson.

I should have known he was garbage. Every man I attract turns out to be absolute utter garbage. Poor excuses of human beings. Maybe they recognize the darkness in me, after all, birds of the same feather and all that. At first, I thought of outing him to his wife but the emotional torrents that would have followed seemed like too much of hustle so, in the end, I decided to kill him. At first, I was going to just imagine it. Play it all out in my head leaving no detail out, just like my therapist taught me. Thinking about it would be enough. In my head, it could be as bloody as possible filled with as much pain as I could possibly imagine and the best thing about it is there would be no consequences because it was all in my head.

However, the more I thought about it the greater the urge to act it out became. I wanted to inflict pain and who better to inflict it on than human scum. So I lured him to my apartment with the promise of a steamy and unforgettable evening and like the well-trained dog that he is he consented. Consent is everything. I promised him that he would never forget today, that steamy barely began to cover what he would experience today. It was his fault for not asking for elaboration. I promised steamy and steamy he would get. Have you ever been burned by steam? Hurts like a mother fucker. Even hours after the initial burn you can still feel the intense pain of the unforgiving heat if not more. His pitiable attempt at escaping left his legs dangling over, perfect. My kettle was just about ready and I knew exactly where to place it. I needed tea to go with my egg sandwich so it was killing two birds with one stone. I picked up the kettle just as the whistle came on and place it right under his feet bring on another bout of violent shakes and terrorized whispers as he tried to escape from the scalding vapor. It was a harmonious song and dance that I could not get enough of.

The steam came into contact with his skin for thirty seconds or less, but his moist eyes spoke of a job well done.

I sipped my lemon tea in silence watching as he renewed his efforts against the non-budging ropes that held him in place. His feet were starting to blister but he had yet to notice as he kept brushing them on the duvet without acknowledging the pain. He must have been experiencing an adrenaline rush. Maybe the reality that he might not make it out the door was solidifying around him.

Tears were now flowing freely down his cheeks. his muffled screams gained an octave as he thrashed desperately on my bed. I watched the entire outburst, my disgust an ever-increasing flood laced with fury. He liked to be in control when we fucked, that was a major turn-off for me but my curiosity about him, about what made him tick, overpowered my desire to shove him off my bed every time he towered over me. I let my imagination ran wild convincing myself that the reason he wanted to control was that he had very little of it in the world beyond this room.

In my head, I imagined a righteous man out to right the wrongs of the world one dirty, dangerous criminal at a time. I know righteousness or any sort of belief or emotion cannot be sexually transmitted. I reasoned that being closely associated with a good man would somehow make me seem good. Appearances were an important commodity, one that my parents valued.

It wasn't just in my head though, that was the picture that he had helped me paint. Dropping hints along the way. Battered wives getting justice here, crippled man gaining employment there. He never went into details he gave just enough to keep me hooked. The pathetic coward hid behind half-truths and outright lies. I had asked him if he was married. Of course, I did! It is the first question anybody sane asks on the first date. He had said no, as they all did. I believed him not because he had outright denied it but it was the little smile he had given me.

This tender smile filled with unspoken hope as he softly held onto my hand. He had then kissed my hand then. This soft dry kiss as he looked into my eyes as if urging me to look inside and see his truth. He was a smooth little bastard. I had believed him because he looked like he was telling the truth.

The thrashing had stopped but the tears continued to flow in a steady stream down his cheeks wetting the scarf in his mouth. I remember when he had bought me that scarf, I wonder if he remembers it. It had been last month, during a trip to the coast. He had shown up at my door flowers in hand and told me he wanted to have a getaway with me. It was a surprise, he had said, flashing me one of his rare smiles.

I had come to despise those smiles. They were rarely seen and usually came after requests. That was when I knew something was off. No one is sincere when asking for something everybody puts their best face forward. The fact that he only seemed sincere when asking for favors and disinterested the rest of the time is what drew a red flag for me. I hate being played for a fool, I hate surprises even more. I had gone on the trip because I needed access to his phone. Two hours after we arrived I knew all his dirty secrets and at that moment he was dead to me. It took me a while to come up with the perfect plan to kill him and dispose of his body. A perfect crime requires a lot of planning and I was not one to rush into things.

Was I special or was I one of the many unsuspecting girls that he charmed off their feet with alleged heroic acts and power? I had no feelings for him. He quipped my curiosity and he took me on dates where I ate expensive food. In other words, he was perfect. I did not care that he was married if he wanted to blow up the life he had built that was his business. What I could not stand was the fact that he had made me believe in his lies. He had managed to maneuver his way around my walls of observation and had somehow tricked me.

He made me look like a naive, foolish girl and there was nothing, in my books, worse than playing me for a fool. A full-on assault like the ones my neighbors had would have been preferable. It had taken me ages to learn how to discern the different emotions that people had and the fact that he had somehow disapproved of my theories that had worked so well, so far, infuriated me. He was a pathological liar. His job should have given it away. He was a man who was so used to telling lies that he had somehow managed to convince himself that everything he said was true. That was the only explanation. When he told me he was not married, at that moment, at that club he was indeed single. So when he said that it had been the truth for him. He was scum that deserved to be scraped off the surface of the earth. He tricked me and that was unforgivable.

My phone rang interrupting my train of thought. The ID flashed across the screen, a series of emojis consisting of a skull, gun, and clown emoji. It was my lovely therapist. The bitch had uncannily perfect timing. The fact that she is alive is a testament to how good she is at her job. Most days I dream of strangling her, she encourages it. She shows no hint of fear despite knowing fully well that I could kill her if I genuinely wanted to, she's absolutely no fun. The one time I actually tried to strangle her she had held onto my arms not attempting to remove them. There had been this indescribable glint in her eyes that had stopped me in my tracks.

There had been a promise of hell in that glint that had me backtracking to my seat. Call it instinct or maybe the darkness in me recognizing the dark and soulless abyss in her. If she wanted to be bad, she would be the worst. I think I ought to report to her to the authorities. I know for sure that my therapist is a psychopath. I picked up her call, she had one rule never hang up on her. She says it's for my own good, I think it feeds her deep pathological need to be always in control. It was the way she had issued the warning that had me picking up her call every time she called.

"Yes Loice, I was in the middle of something. Can I call you back later?"

"No Melisa you cannot. You know I am fond of you right? Up until now, I have thought that you are an intelligent girl and it seems that you are trying to prove me wrong. Murder Is punishable by law! You realize that, don't you. You are a clever girl, I need you to stop being angry for a second and think. Anger is not a good emotion to be acting on. It never results in anything productive. It makes you rush and you make a mistake that you only see as mistakes after it has died down. I am glad he has made you angry. That is something, anger is good, anger means that you care even if it is for your pride. However, you can't kill him. Think of this as an opportunity to learn about a new emotion up until now you have only ever been curious about the outcome of things. I am sure you can find your way back from this all you need to do is take a deep breath and think"

The fact that she knew exactly where I was and exactly what i was doing did not shock me as much as it irritated me. She must have installed a spy camera the last time she was here. If she had gone that far, my parents had been in on it. Bringing it up would not be a productive route to take and I had far more pressing things to conclude.

"He deserves to die" I retorted not bothering to deny what I was up to and ignoring her unsolicited advice.

She had been my therapist ever since I was ten and she knew me and my crazy impulses better than I did. From the moment I had told her about the cheating sack of crap, she must have known what I would do. The fact she had allowed me to start was why I liked her and also why I was afraid of her. She let me run wild but stopped me right at the edge of the cliff.

She was right though; I could still salvage this situation. He was a narcissistic man; his ego was as precious to him as his life. Appeasing his ego would do the trick. I could get him to forgive me and forget this whole incident, but the urge to pull back was weak. I wanted to see him bleed on my bed.

I wanted to see his entrails hanging on my wall and his head bleeding into my sink as death glazed over his eyes. I wanted his blood all over my room. The image of me soaked in his blood as I called his wife to tell her the bad news grew more appealing by the second and the tingling between my legs urged me to finish it. To jump into the unknown. I was on the verge of no return and it was the most arousing feeling ever.

"He does deserve it but does your life deserve to end because of the fool. Killing him gives him power over your life. He will control your life in death whereas if he is alive all you have to do is never see him again. I am sure you have already done enough damage to him as it is. Is he really worth the rest of your life? I know you want to end him and ending him would feel great but for how long.

Think about it afterward. The cleaning of your apartment, the energy it takes to completely dispose of the body. The stench in your room after. It would not take long to kill hin and the feeling of gratification will be there sure.

What about the energy it takes to ensure that his body or rather your crime remains hidden? What about your parents, what would they think?"

Dipping him in a barrel full of acid, hacking his body into pieces, and burying him in the middle of a forest. Throwing away hacked up pieces of his body into different dumpsters. I had thought of several ways to dispose of his body. He was from a poor background and his parents would fuss to the police but nothing would amount from it. This is Kenya, justice is for the rich and able. My parents were rich enough to make the case go away if it ever got back to me. One look at the wall of lawyers at my disposal and the judge would know which was to go.

However, this would be a hiccup in my long-term plan. My flawless record and my mission to be an all-perfect child to my parents would become spilled milk. I see the way they still walked on eggshells around me. They would never fully recover from that one time I attempted to drown my sister. I wanted to know how it would feel and I needed a test rat to ensure that, when I did, I would not die. That did not go over well with them. I was six then and they had chalked it up as a childish curiosity.

They knew something was wrong with me they, however, had chosen to ignore it. Acknowledging my blank and emotionless stares would mean admitting that their perfect family was not so perfect after all. When I was ten I wanted to help them with cutting the chicken. However, my curiosity got the better of me, so I cut its feet and watched as it attempted to crawl away blood spouting from the stumps. The crimson red fluid was captivating and all I wanted to do was feel it with my hands. It had been warm so naturally, I wanted to feel it on my face and so on.

By the time my parents found me I was covered in blood and needless to say the look of horror could not be surmised with words. Several scared therapists later, Loice and I met and thus began our cat and bigger cat games.