I balled my fingers when I caught her staring. Receptionist have such long, well-kept fingernails. Often, they’re French-pressed. Looking so fake and pretty and false, but they keep the handsome bosses around and the command the respect of a woman with a desk job. I placed them gently below the counter while maintaining eye contact. She blinked rapidly. Continue reading
Rita massaged her hands with the back of her blade, coaxing herself internally. “It’s only a little-bitty flick of the wrist.” And it was. Pinned by her knees to the floor, Sanders struggled for air.
“Grawp,” he choked. Trapped asunder, he could fight death no longer.
She took the plunge, aimed the plunge, and missed plunging his carotid by centimeters. A long, miserable death would follow. She pushed herself off him and looked back at her work.
This one was published a while back, but was swallowed up by other posts. Some of you have read the others in the series, which I will link to below.
Choking and bleeding, Sanders looked a pitiful sight. She had choked him into submission, thrown him to the floor, and slapped his face from on top of him. With a smile.
Sanders swiped out as his vision failed. He brushed against a wiry, black curl. Unlike the other locks he’d felt, this one was unconditioned and plain — he gasped as the pain spiked and ended.
Rita, on the other hand, took pleasure in his final gesture. She thought it cute and warranted — she had won, had she not? A nagging inside her pushed from joy at a moment, but her ego held tight to contentedness. What guilty whisper sounded faded as soon. The moon from the open windowsill passed the obscuring pine branches and glinted in the blade. Rita cooed and giggled — the moon, her only friend.
When I’m not busy avoiding my obligations, I am finding some way to read, listen, or write. It doesn’t quite matter how I do it, I just do. Without participating in some sort of stimulation, I bite my nails to nubs. Something about music, fiction, and other art forms calms me. Continue reading