Fire Burning House from Pixabay


Precious Sleeve Present

She stole my love and ate my heart. I can not let her escape. The embodiment of my pain mocks me with each breath she takes.

Punishment and suffering are her future.

The night does not conceal her treachery. I saw. They make love every weekend while I’m at work. We have just been married for three years. Women joined forever before nature and the eyes of the world.

Why does she taunt me with dirty betrayal?

Wouldn’t she know of my jealousy? I see the scum going down on her. Their throws of ecstasy are sickening. Did they hear me wretch? Obviously, my presence is still hidden. The blonde’s head is still buried in her.

Attractive as my love’s companion is she remains an infection which I will eliminate. My wrath will be brutal.

I’ll wait patiently.

Jillian and her friend are kissing goodbye. I’ll see my love later at home. She’ll think I’m just coming back from work.

Alone in the shower. How perfect. But no. Too cliche. I can’t believe Jillian picked a ditz to have an affair with. She left the front door unlocked.

I’ll wait quietly.

I’ve seen this one before. She’s been at our apartment. Jillian doesn’t know I saw the video on her phone.

She would say, “Cathy, mind your own biz” if she knew I snooped her. Her anger is real but makes me want to prod her more.

The utility closet in this house is huge. Hiding beside the stacked washer and dryer is easy and comfy.

Want for her blood fills my eagerness.

Surprise and shock are my biggest weapons but I will be subtle and stealthy. Her vanity screams weakness. She’s only a blond shape to be reformed and cleaned. A vessel of iniquity which must relinquish wrongs and be freed.

The folding door of this closet better not creek when I open it. A slight scrape is all the door sounds as I move out into the hallway. She didn’t hear me. She’s happily singing to herself and preening her eyelashes in the bathroom mirror.

Ballet lessons and gymnastics gave me such control and grace. Glad mom made me take classes for so many years. Starving me and beating me with her wooden hairbrush until I bled, harsh training. Entwined hurt memories.

She could have taken the time to clean her blonde hairs out of the hairbrush before whipping me. Mom’s can be bothersome.

Silently walking on the wooden floor I approach my lover’s darling.

She’s singing an old Shania Twain song, “Man, I feel like a woman!” Her voice is full and sweet. The way she moves her head side to side and twists her shoulders and hips sends an intoxicating lust zinging up my spine.

She still doesn’t see me.

My filleting knife finds the top of her shoulder next to her spine. Right hand over her mouth left hand pulling down in a steady slice opening skin, fat, and muscle, the odor of fear and thrill seize me. I keep her standing using my knees to push her against the counter and sink.

Fast and efficient. My blade is sharp and will not dull.

She’s attempting to scream and bite my hand but the washcloth she was using makes a nice mouth stuffer. It’s amazing how you can multitask in a needy moment. I make t-cuts around the shoulder blades and loosen her sides like a sack of fresh meat.

Carving carefully around the ankles with precision cuts rounding the legs unbinds more skin. The feel of slack in her covering drives me on.

Thankfully she hadn’t put on any clothes or one of those annoying towel wraps. I may have had more of a struggle to subdue my lover’s blonde mistress.

My trophy is nearly ready to remove.

Hard to believe she is still conscious. Her hot breath finds my fingers as I slash around her neck and face.

These gloves are so easy to move in, you can feel everything. Real quality.

Small deep cuts. I want the sheath to pull off intact.

Her green eyes are buried into my every movement. She’s helpless and I see pleading crying deep within her.

Does she think she will survive?

The meth and oxy she takes must be keeping her awake. Such driving torture. Her purification almost complete.

My strength could not be better. Hours in the gym are really paying off. Hoisting her up on the bathroom door towel hooks took most of my power.

I dig my fingers in at the top of her scalp. My smile must be giving her a chill. Pulling the skin easily off her, the sucking sound creeps me out just the slightest bit.

Blood is everywhere.

My prize is in my black duffle bag. I leave her collapsed and exposed hooked on the bathroom door. She dangles there. A reminder of past abuses, an unshakeable albatross of mommy things.

I strip naked and put on her sweatpants and oversized rugby sweatshirt. She enjoys me modeling it for her, no doubt.

The gas stove is a nice touch. Breaking the valve is easy. Pungent smells fill the house space quickly. Real wood floors and rafters will make nice kindling.

How nice of her to have a lighter handy. The cloth curtains will make for a good fire.

I leave my blonde fillet with a curtsey and bow.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening. Warm regards. Bye-bye!” I know she heard me.

“Hi, hon.”

“Cathy, you’re late tonight. How was work?”

“Usual…things get a little sticky sometimes but everything works out in the end.”

“Yeah, did the lock jam. I set the pin.”

“Oh, Jilly that was you?!”

“Sure, ya didn’t think she was dumb just because she’s blonde did you? I have better taste than that. Yeesh!”

“I have a surprise for you.”

“What is it?” Jillian shook the black duffle bag.

“Come on open it. You can put it on later. We’ll have real fun.”

“Cathy, you got this for me. It’s so wonderful. You shouldn’t have.”

“Anything for you my love.”

© Greg Prince 2019

Stabbed Broken Heart from Pixabay

Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.

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