Think globally, kill locally

I find it hard to stifle my emotions, a common trait amongst women I’ve been raised to believe. My most frequent reactions are repulsion, rage and irritation, uncommon traits among women I’ve been told. Being lumbered with sensitivity must be hellish but being burdened with a penis should be considered a disability in this day and age. Men cannot control themselves because of it and yet they can be so easily controlled by it. They are very weak creatures, they will ruin their entire lives for what lies between a woman’s thighs, and then blame the owner of the thighs. I wonder what it must be like to be a man, I imagine it’s a bit like being a dog, focusing only on the basest of needs and not being able to comprehend consequences. The one thing I can empathise with, ironically, is their lack of compassion. Hearing a man whinge about something is a bit like hearing a mosquito buzz: annoying, slightly painful, yet ultimately insignificant.

I consider saying all of this out loud, but a poetic monologue would be wasted on the Neanderthal across from me, who is currently explaining the meticulous grooming of his beard. Any such honesty on my part would be mistaken as playful ribbing, most are completely oblivious to tone and sincerity. This one’s name is James, he is thirty-two (as am I) and works at a car dealership, his hobbies include going to the gym and looking at himself in the mirror. He is ok looking, a seven I guess, husky with a beard, tattoos and a faux-charming smile .He claims to have a job a car and a house which is impressive for a man in 2020, for some reason, though I suspect he is lying. He has no ridiculous views, a few outdated ones but with men you have to pick your battles, being a woman is a life of compromises. For example he just spent twenty minutes defending the non-consensual sexual behaviour of a well know comedian, despite never having met the man and the man himself admitting to his disturbing behaviour. I suggested that if a man misunderstood the situation once it could be a mistake however if it happens over thirteen times he should probably question his behaviour, maybe see if they want to kiss him before he whips his dick out but what do I know. James’ personality is dull, his topic choice laughable and his voice mirrors that of someone with serious mental disabilities however I am not here to meet my soulmate. Despite his lack of criminal record or current intent he is the right type for me to practise on. He may not have personally been caught doing anything naughty by the police but given a long enough life he would no doubt do something worthy of a castration.

I sit on an uncomfortable chair, in a pub with sticky carpets and mismatching lightbulbs. The room smells of spilled pints and body odour, we have been sat here for two hours. Across from me James sits confidently, thinking the date is going well. I almost pity him, his lack of awareness, but I suspect it is in fact a lack of interest in his date’s happiness. The empty glasses are collected the moment the last sip is taken, to there is no evidence of time on the table itself, like a Groundhog Day for beverages. I have sat graciously as he has explained the meaning of twenty-three of his tattoos to me, his motive being to either illicit a response or to hint at a deeper thought process below that voice, which is stabbing at my eardrum like a blunt ice pick. This is technically our second date, the first was one drink two nights ago, I had planned to quench my bloodlust that night but his voice had thrown me off and I began feeling too sick to talk, excusing myself with a curt apology and the promises of a second date. And here we are. The plastic sheeting is already on the floor under my bed and I have alluded to a penchant for water sports to justify it, not that an explanation will be necessary, when a man is aroused he won’t question anything.

I have dressed provocatively enough to get him back to my house later, I ping my fishnets mindlessly. Combining black and red, leather and lace, stockings and shiny stilettoes renders men helpless as though the criss-cross fabric hypnotises them. My jaw begins to ache and I realise my unflinching smile has morphed into a Chrissy Teigen grimace, a slight squeak can be heard as my molars press together, I alone hear this as he is still talking loudly. I focus on staring at his teeth, he has perfectly symmetrical incisors, this pleases me. His lips close and I take that as my cue to speak.

“They’re really sexy.” I refer of course to the tattoo’s he is oh so proud of despite not drawing or applying any of them himself, and this is all the encouragement he requires to carry on monopolising the conversation, not waiting a breath to see if I had anything further to say. Tonight I managed to push past the nausea of socialising and we are on our sixth drinks, I have been drinking diet coke which he believes contains a double shot of Vodka. He has been drinking Jack and Cokes which has loosened him up to the point of complete unravelling. I do my best to mirror his current condition, and that combined with his beer goggles is sufficient to convince him I am drunk. I wait until he tells me the same story twice (the origin story of the Koi carp tattoo) to suggest moving onto the second location, my house, his final resting place. Stumbling out of the bar he puts an arm uncomfortably around my waist, he is too short for this gesture and my arm rests uncomfortably on his shoulder, after a few steps I let it hang limp between us and he moves his hand up to the back of my neck, like an old bobby steering a young delinquent up to their mothers doorstep.

“I’ll drive” I try to sound sweet and seductive but my hand is tugged out of his pocket before I can get a good grip on the keys.

“No way, little ladies like you get drunk the quickest, it’s just science innit?”

I look at his incisors again, I really want them so I will allow this little scene if it gets him back to my flat. But if he drives we won’t make it back in one piece, so I take a second swing,

“Please, its such a sexy car.” I whine, sliding my hand back into his pocket. In truth there was nothing sexy about this car, but it is prudent for me to use the word sexy as often as I can, like the fishnets it hypnotises the simple minded. When I finally get on finger around the key ring I whip it out giggling in the moronic way men enjoy and open the driver’s side door. I broke a nail at some point in that exchange, and now only nine of them are matching, the rage I feel is disproportionate but I keep it below the surface, knowing how cathartic the next few hours are going to be. I find it hard to hide my reactions, especially in these circumstances, and the atmosphere cools the moment my passenger closes his door. I can mimic emotions; I just find it hard to pick the correct amount of the appropriate emotion for any given situation.

“Can you drive manual?” He slurs.

“If I concentrate.” The sarcastic tone is lost in the atmosphere created by his alcohol breath and he mistake’s it for yet more flirting, his response is the popular male style of flirting, thinly veiled insults.

“I thought you women were supposed to be good at multi-tasking” I considered telling him about the night I had an entire phone conversation whilst disposing of a body but thought better of it.

It had to be the index finger didn’t it? I look down at my hands as we drive further out of town, the streetlights swiping through the interior of the car at regular intervals, each time hitting my nine long red nails and their ugly stepsister on the right index finger. I am not so insane that I believe this is a reason to kill, but id be lying if I said it didn’t get me in the right headspace. There is no one reason to kill a man but if you were to look closely enough at any man there are a million small reasons. Take the imbecile snoring in the passenger seat, he has no criminal record, and he has no intention of hurting me this evening however he is deserving of my wrath. James has bounced from woman to woman every year since he was nineteen, each time with an impressive six month overlap, each woman is led to believe that the previous woman was unreasonable and controlling though of course he is the controlling one. He is also abusive and an all-around failure at life, deeply in debt, reliant on drugs and essentially sofa surfing with short, bitter relationships. If the women scorned had spoken to the police his criminal record would be hefty, everything from domestic abuse, drug use and DUI’s. Hence why I feel no guilt for what’s about to happen, though sometimes I think I’m just looking for excuses, the broken nail will suffice.

I live in what could affectionately be known as the middle of nowhere in what could accurately be described as a shit hole. Being a millennial with two dead working-class parents I have of course no prospects. My step father was a decorator and my mother was both a house wife and a part time cleaner, between them they managed to buy a house which is the stuff of fairy tales nowadays and with my mothers death three years ago came the chance for me to have a fresh start. I immediately quit my soul crushing minimum wage job and sold the semi-detached in Chelmsford town centre. I then bought an abandoned nine-bedroom pub in the middle of nowhere, my little slice of silent secluded heaven. I am slowly renovating it room by room which I’m finding very therapeutic, some days I don’t even think about murder, but eventually I will have to venture into the town for supplies and that reminds me of my one true passion. The most recent was where I met this ‘James’ fella.

I had decided to drive my little white van to get the big food shop and the filler required for the holes in the kitchen walls. The fear of frozen food defrosting while I browse dictated that I go to the big DIY store first, and despite myself I enjoyed meandering up and down each aisle, even turning back to exchange the modest basket with a trolley to hold all the impulse buys. I spent a whopping forty minutes in the wallpaper section rubbing sample after sample between my thumb and forefinger, a very soothing motion. When moving the thumb in small circles the forefinger and middle finger move instinctively with it, go ahead, try it, it almost makes me believe in meditation, but like meditation it doesn’t clear my mind, it just makes me think of blood. Speaking of which, plastic sheets. After bulk buying the plastic sheeting (I’ve found the ‘cut to size’ range to be more economical) I go to browse light fixtures. The temptation to make the house a gothic museum fit for 21st century vampires is overwhelming but my desire to fit in extinguishes this notion, and I put the wrought-iron wall-mounted candle-holder back. I try to avoid ceramic wall lights; blood splatters can be a nightmare to wipe away at the best of times so plaster or preferably plastic can be a real time saver. I then moved along to the wall of switches and sockets.

“Interior designer?” The hairs on the back of my neck raise, here I am, enjoying my own company when a man approaches to make banal conversation, where I alone at a bar in a mini dress and stilettos I would forgive his misinterpretation of the situation (though still not excuse it) but here I am in paint stained dungarees and a baseball cap, what is he thinking.

“No I’m a builder.” He mistakes this for sarcasm as he cannot fathom a world in which a woman could be a builder, would her husband even allow such a thing?

“Hahaha right. Can I help you find anything?”

“You work here?” I look him up and down and find he is wearing a remarkably similar outfit to me, no polyester trousers, no monochromatic polo shirt, no cheap plastic name tag.

“No, I am a builder actually,” He pauses, a lazy excuse of a joke, then continues “just wondered if you knew what you were looking at, these can get pretty complicated.” He points at the dimmer switches.

“So how many men have you approached to share your unsolicited expertise with?”

James barked a throaty laugh before nodding and pointing “Oh so you’re one of them.” I honestly still don’t know what he meant by that. Could it have actually been his first funny joke oh you’re a woman I hadn’t noticed that would’ve been self-deprecating and dry, but I fear that’s giving him too much credit. Perhaps he meant lippy? A feminist? Belligerent? I guess we’ll never know as he steam-rolled ahead.

“Want to go for a drink later?” I feel about dates the same way men feel about foreplay: lengthy, tedious but it might just get me what I want.

“Sure.”

Three days later and I’m slapping him awake to get him inside the derelict building, I could have shook him, sure, but I had just remembered his various character deficiencies and was barely containing my disgust.

“Home sweet home” Again he didn’t register the sarcasm. Not everything can be blamed on his alcohol intake, he wasn’t that sharp sober either. I had given him the name of Patricia Bateman and even after pointing at the American Psycho poster and claiming it to be one of his favourite films he didn’t seem to make the connection, I could have been Tonya Montana for all he cared, he was about to have sex, or so he thought.

My first job after moving in had been to cover the expensive beautiful flooring with cheap linoleum which mimicked the design of the parquet flooring below. The antique wood is exquisitely beautiful but a hassle when mopping up spillages. A highly diluted adhesive can then be applied to the linoleum before laying the plastic sheeting, this will disguise its temporary status to a drunk man appearing instead as merely cheap flooring. The linoleum flows from the front door, along the corridor, up the stairs along another hallway and through the plastic curtain into my bedroom, I don’t sleep here of course, that would be perverse. As he shifts his weight from side to side with his drunken sway there is a slight crackling sound from the plastic below his feat, I replace it with music. The slow thumping beat of What’s a girl to do echoes against the bare walls, and the cheap red lamps give the room a cheap, dirty look. I tell him to make himself comfortable. I turn my back to fix us drinks from the makeshift bar in the corner, a mini fridge of mixers topped with six nearly empty bottles of spirits. I evaluate my own performance so far as worthy of a drink, just one though, I want to keep these memories as sharp as possible. He will have a vodka coke, partly because I don’t care for his preferences and more so because the Vodka is spiked. I turn to see him dancing, almost, he is wagging one index finger in the air out of time with the music, the drugging will not be necessary it seems but I’ve poured it now so he may as well drink it. The bizarre finger dance is reminding me of the broken nail, I daren’t look down at my right hand in case I fly off the handle. With a deep breath I finish my drink before handing him his, which he immediately drops.

I can’t remember exactly what happened after that, the glass must have smashed, and I must have killed him with my butterfly knife but everything else is a mystery. Shame really, I imagine it was beautiful. The splashes on the plastic covered room certainly looks artistic. I decide to leave the clean up until the morning and opt for a quick shower and a deep sleep.