I was thinking
about someone I killed the other day. That doesn’t happen very often. I know I
used to write down their names – and I regret how long it took me to come to my
senses and burn those books – but I rarely go back and reflect on them. They’re
usually just numbers, faces. The thing I remember most is the kill.
The squish of
their organs in my hand, the echo of their pleas for mercy, the taste of their
blood on my lips when I kiss my husband good night. Those are the memories that
stay with me. I don’t care about the people – I hope I’ve made that clear over
the years – so why would I think about them?
Honestly, it wasn’t
even about them, I’m just surprised that I was thinking of someone at all.
A few years ago,
Charlotte Westburn blackmailed me into murdering a politician. I swore I would
never be a murder for hire. I would never waste my talents working for someone
else’s agenda. And yet…
That entire affair
feels like an entire lifetime ago. I was a different person – at least I hope I
was.
That woman felt
like her entire life was out of control.
You know sometimes
I get distracted? I’ll be in the middle of writing and my mind will just wander
away. I was just trying to remember if I ever used female pronouns when talking
about myself. I must have, right? In all these years of writing to you, I must
have mentioned that I was a woman. I’m certain I have and yet, I couldn’t say
for certain. Or maybe you all just assumed because I talked about my husband
and about being a mother to my sister’s children (which is some heteronormative
bullshit, let me just say… but I do it, too) but I am. A woman. I have a
husband whom I love, and a child that I try to be a mother for. Not a good mother,
even, just better. I deal with all the societal and health-related bullshit
that comes with having tits and a vagina.
And on top of
that, I kill people. And I take advantage of the fact that I am a woman and some
people will naturally not see me as a threat in order to get close to them and
end their lives.
I know I’ve talked
about being a woman before because I have definitely talked about taking
advantage of the system that is designed to oppress me. That is definitely a
conversation we’ve had.
I felt that being
an assassin was a way of taking away the power I struggle to hold on to in a
male-dominant lifestyle. I wasn’t going to do it because after all the things I’ve
been through to overcome my addictions and my helplessness, I wouldn’t willingly
go back to that life – no matter how sexy it looks on TV.
And then Charlotte,
a woman I thought was my friend, took that away from me. And it doesn’t
matter that she’s dead now, it doesn’t erase the way I felt when this monster I’d
unwittingly created came back to hurt me.
I’m sick of ghosts
coming back to haunt me. I don’t want to remember the victims. I don’t want to
remember the friends who have hurt me. I just want to forget.
As always, dear
readers,
Stay Safe
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