They Never Learn

But little do they know: killing a man is so much more satisfying than fucking a man could ever be.

He wasn’t afraid of me. That was his first mistake.’

Even in his final moments, I doubt he learned his lesson. But I didn’t kill him to teach him a lesson; I killed him to carve him out of this world like a tumor. And I’d do it again.

It’s exhausting, being in my head. I wish I could stop thinking. I wish I could be like everyone else.

All the cutest girls are bi, didn’t you get the memo?

I’m not an object or an obstacle to him anymore. I’m his goddamn ruination.

Reading was my most reliable escape in childhood, the one way I could get away from my father while still trapped in the same space with him.

His face darkens with a mixture of embarrassment and anger- perhaps the most dangerous combination in a man.

He wasn’t afraid of me. That was his first mistake.

I have so many more men to kill.

His abuse was all emotional and psychological; the only marks it left were internal. Impossible to see, easy to deny.

I return to the bookcases, pulling down as many volumes as I can carry and dropping them on top of Kinnear, until he’s covered head to toe with the words of the dead white men he loved so dearly.

If men like that could learn the error of their ways, I wouldn’t have to teach so many of them a lesson.

It’s me, I’m the one, and I did it all to protect women like us. I did it, and I’d do it again.

Destroying these beautiful books sparks more guilt in me than any of the murders I’ve committed, but at least they’re serving a purpose.

His face darkens with a mixture of embarrassment and anger—perhaps the most dangerous combination of emotions in a man.

Men like him don’t want a relationship, they want a fan club. The more members the better.

That’s not pity in his eyes, or judgment. Instead, it’s something like… wonder. Maybe admiration, even.

But it’s not long before the panic creeps in again. My throat tightening, my heart throbbing with the suspicion that happiness must be a trick, a trap, a rug about to be pulled out from under me, and any second now I’m going to fall.

Trying to get away from me, because she's afraid. Afraid of me. I feel so alert, blood thrumming, muscles coiled, like her fear is feeding me.

I don’t know how to do this: make friends, talk to girls, talk to anyone my age really. In high school, kids only acknowledged my existence if they wanted something, like help studying for their AP English final.

I know I shouldn’t take it out on him—he’s not the enemy here—but it felt good, letting a little bit of the rage break through. Like spitting out poison.

Men like them are the ones who really get away with murder.

for a second I think he’s actually going to try to kiss me. I can’t allow that, obviously—too many forensic variables, not to mention my own gag reflex.

He's just like the rest of them. Bash, Alex. My father. They want us to bend and bend, let them say and do whatever they want to us. They get away with it, over and over again.

I’d had this same thought about my father. His abuse was all emotional and psychological; the only marks it left were internal. Impossible to see, easy to deny.

desire building in me like a scream.