She's tall, long-limbed, black. Blacker than words can describe. So black, she shines in the darkness of a terrorist's heart. Eyes of a lazy-eyed feline, with flecks of gold. She's untouchable, invisible, but I can see her. She lurks, long fingers curled in my direction, beckoning, encouraging. It's better here, she says, her gold teeth shimmering under her shining blackness. You'll like it here better. Her long, black tongue, licks her lips and she releases its length to the floor. It bounces, unrolls until it reaches my feet. Come here, she says. No one will miss you. I could not disagree.
She likes despair. Mine, especially. It keeps me writing, she says. It keeps you from forgetting me, she muses. Selfish, beautiful, frightening, charming creature, she is. I want to keep her close, have her whisper words of dark things, dark, dark things. She talks of knives, and guns, and tall buildings, and heavy, fast cars. And it sticks. Stays there. I can't go back to that place, I argue. Ohhh, she smiled, but yes you can. And you will. And it'll be glorious.
She knew of my addiction to sharp things, running across my wrists in desperate attempt to punish myself with pain, and she encouraged it. She bought me knives. Beautiful ones. Made with stainless steel, embroidered with regret, disappointment, and despair. Not enough. Too clean. Must paint in shades of red or else it won't do. She killed the man,
and now she'll kill the girl.
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