When Women Kill

No one ever expects a female killer. It’s like a male ballet dancer - they exist, but you never expect them.

But I have no problems with that. It makes my job easier. I play the role of the poor, defenceless woman lost on her way home late at night.

“Please help me, sir, my phone’s dead and I have no way of getting home, could I charge my phone in your house?” I say batting my eyelids innocently at him. He looks me up and down, practically undressing me with his eyes. A pause. A cigarette. A sigh. He gestures for me to follow him.

What number is this now? My 9th? No, maybe 10th? Double digits. The first one was sloppy. An accident. I swear I didn’t mean to hit him that hard. Just enough to knock some sense into him. He shouldn’t have cheated on me in the first place, but after that, I realised I have talent. How tactically I had slowly disposed of him. Bit by bit every week on Monday, just as the garbage truck trundled past. Nobody suspected a thing. Police informed me he was missing. It was hard not to laugh as I collapsed at their feet, begging them to find him. You should’ve seen it.

“Oh god, my Jamie? Gone? You’ve got to find him, please, Officer?” I wailed, clutching at their hands. I deserved an Oscar for that performance.

As we walk through the damp and dimly lit streets, I’m debating how to perform my 10th. Kitchen knife? Too messy. Way too cliché. How many people are killed by kitchen knives? Maybe I’ll let the moment decide.

“Are we almost there?” I timidly asked, tactically brushing my hand against his arm. “It’s cold and dark, and I’m scared” My voice shook as I spoke.

He turned, looking me up and down again.

“Almost there, hun”.

Hun? Ew. I smiled warmly at him, closing the distance between us ever so slightly. Just enough for him to feel the warmth of our bodies. His steps falter. His hands wander to scratch at his rugged chin. Smoothly loosening his tie at the same time.

A silver ring on his hand glistened under the streetlight.

Oh, he deserves to die.

We walk further through a sprawling mess of apartment complexes. I hope he’s not a screamer. His neighbours might kill me. As we approach a towering, unkept building, we slow to a stop. One last deep inhale. He flicks his cigarette to the floor. It sizzles against the wet concrete.

He exhales smoke directly into my face. Disgusting.

“The elevators broken”, he grumbles, frustrated.

Great. No quick escape for me then.

We begin to climb the flights of stairs before arriving at a worn red door. A faded golden 231 clings to it for dear life. He sighs as he unlocks the door. For someone bringing a woman home, he sure does sigh a lot.

The door swings open, revealing a messy kitchen. Empty takeaway boxes scatter the room. Unwashed cutlery haunts the sink with a filthy bowl stacked on top.

Ok, no wife. No woman could live like this.

“You can charge your phone here”, he shoves a wire in my direction.

No foreplay? Nothing? Just straight to the point. So predictable. A picture frame sits on his shelf. A woman. Similar to me. A son. Oh, so he was loved once. Wonder what he did. Do you think they’ll come to the funeral? The thought made me smile.

“Something funny?” he prodded, frustrated.

“No, just glad to have been saved by someone like you”, I said, stepping closer again. “You’re a real lifesaver, you know that” my voice sweet.

He awkwardly stepped back, turning to look away from me. Maybe this won’t be as easy as I thought.

“Would you like anything to drink, darling?”

There it is again. Darling. Makes me sound like some lost girl in need of saving. Oh, please, I’m not that pathetic.

“Do you have anything strong?” I giggle, playing the part of a shy schoolgirl.

He reaches for a bottle of whiskey tucked away on a shelf. Pouring two glasses. He drinks his before even handing me mine. No courtesy. No chivalry. Not very surprising. Still disappointing. We drink for a while. I flirt just enough to keep him hungry, twirling my hair, proactively taking my coat off, etc. He sits silent, drinking, occasionally flashing his vibrantly yellow teeth at me.

“Follow me”, he mutters, dulled by the drink before. I hold my hand out in front of me, allowing him to lead me to his bedroom. That’s when I see it. An old sword hung on a wall. What kind of home décor is a sword? I’m not complaining it’s unimaginably convenient for me. I walk in. He closes the door behind me, and as he does, I lean in for a kiss. A gentle peck. Nothing more. More of a goodbye kiss than anything.

“Can you take your top off?” I ask, smiling still maintain my flirtatious façade. He nods eagerly. He looks ridiculous like a fucking bobble head – drunk, desperate, oblivious. It’s like he can’t even think for himself.

He grabs at the bottom of his shirt, fumbling like a toddler trying to rip it off his head. He can’t take his top off. I am watching a fully grown man struggle to take their shirt off. He looks ridiculous with his arms waving above his head and his head tangled up in his shirt. He looks like a beetle stuck on its back. Why didn’t he undo the buttons? I laugh at him. Not my flirty laugh. My real laugh. A triumphant cackle – cruel, genuine. This is too easy.

My laughter stops him. His head still concealed in the shirt. He cannot see. I stop. This is it. The chance I’ve been waiting for all night. The sword practically calls me, I’m chosen. I rip the sword from the wall, feeling like King Arthur. It’s slightly heavier than I expected, but the weight feels nice in my hands.

I lunge forward with the sword, laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation. The sword tears through him, and the shirt runs red. I almost feel bad for ruining such a charmingly terrible shirt. His yelp of shock slips out like a bark from a chihuahua. I draw back the sword once more, this time raising it high above my head like some deranged knight before forcibly bringing it down on his head. I’m knighting him.

The sword buries itself deep into his head, scraping against an odd alchemy of bone and brain. He stumbles into the wall, gently touching at his head in confusion. You can see his brain fighting to understand the situation. He still has that stupid shirt on his head. I rip it off, revealing a look of pure stupidity on his face. He falls at my feet, still sputtering and stuttering. I pull the Excalibur out of his head.

I do a crazed dance, wielding the sword like an old tribal leader before setting it down on his stained bed. I look down at him, satisfied with my work. Unfortunately, that’s the end of the fun. Now I have to tidy this bloody mess up. There was no reason for it. He hadn’t done anything to offend me. But those 60 seconds of gore and guts had made it all worth it. Great, now I’ve got to spend tomorrow scrubbing blood off carpets. Why couldn’t I have had normal hobbies.