“Wait!” he calls to her, confused at her sudden change in demeanor and departure. What the fuck is wrong with this woman?

    She spins on her heels in an instant, deftly lifts the newly-acquired blade to point directly at him with an outstretched arm, and glares into his eyes. Her upper lip curls and, as if possessed by a beast, her mouth releases a low, rumbling, gutteral growl. She seems to be holding her breath otherwise, afraid to exhale out the rage and tear him to pieces. The rage petrifies her, for she fears allowing one single tremor to escape at the risk it will be too late to stop what follows. The only indication of her unraveling is at the tip of the blade where it gently quivers in her hand so steady that it vibrates an energy frequency of another dimension. She’s channeling everything through its end.

    He sucks in a breath and nearly jumps back. Eyes wide. Staring right back, those deep beautiful greens, a whole field in there, a sea.

   “The only reason I haven’t killed you is because I do not want to go to prison,” she carves out in a hushed roar.

    He feels the curse hit him in a wave, a semi truck rolling, barreling over him. Just last week she said she missed him. The week before that, she said she loved him, hoped for no harm to ever befall him. It doesn’t add up. Is she insane? How did he miss this? Surely, there had to be a clue, a sign–somewhere–that he was close to fucking up that badly. But nowhere could he rack his brain and discover the answer.

    And he was supposed to know this one. That’s your algebra, baby, that’s your fucking puzzle, bitch.

   And that is why she hates him. The fool. The fucking idiot. They never understand a damn thing, men. Never understand a damn fucking thing. Bomb it. Burn it to the ground. This temple I built for you. It’s such a familiar routine that it no longer shocks her. Just call in the squad. Level the fucking place. All the apologies she used to render when gutting some lover are redundant now. Mostly because she is no longer sorry. Not for being crazy, not for all the graves. Finally, she saw the world as sociopaths see it: they are too stupid to live. Except that in this case, the harm they cause for that stupidity is why they are not worth sorry. No, you don’t get to be stupid, not when you dabble in the universe, no. You play with Kali, with the Dark Goddess, and call yourself fucking worthy and stupid and brave and crazy. You will die. The bravado of every male will be his downfall when women reach our full power. Because given a true standard to rise to, they will all fall. None would survive. All the excuses we have made to avoid the inevitable, to prevent ourselves from being mass murderers. But it’s too late for her. Too late. She’s a killer at heart, a crazy psycho killer, and she doesn’t care anymore. They are too fucking stupid to live with weapons like that, wielded without skill, without art, without craft. Dismember them. Dispose them of their power. She’s just not sorry.

   And how he stands there now, naively hoping it’s a bad dream, waking up, about to fall to pieces. Mercy. Mercy. Don’t you have mercy, woman?!? Where is mercy now? Don’t you like riddles you fucking scum? But if he has any sense at all, he knows this is what mercy looks like when you are as guilty as he is. All she can think about is how badly she wants to lunge at him and cut right into the largest vein in his neck, watch him bleed out onto the pavement, look into his eyes as he slowly drifts to sleep. Sing a song of hallelujah over his corpse like a disgarded marionette withering over a scarecrow on the asphalt. Laws and legal codes rolling through her wide open eyes still locked on his. She sees the police arresting her, the hearing, her face in the news. She sees that hysterical, maniacal smile she’ll give them, the women at home all understanding but pretending they don’t. Laughing in the bathrooms as they light that cigarette, turn the fan on, while the kids are sleeping or dinner is cooking, giggling: She fucking stabbed him, haha, just like that, lost her shit and just fucking killed the guy. They laugh in secret. She’s seeing the whole damn thing play out while he gives her that pathetic fucking look, the big slap of a question mark above his ridiculous face. I could scream into the void: STOP PRETENDING TO BE SO FUCKING STUPID. And they would still be that stupid. What we want is for them to just admit that they know what they have done to us. Even that little token would be enough that we’d collapse in exhaustion and weep into the dirt. Yet all any woman has or ever will get is that stupid swaying hollow shell with the clueless blank stare standing before her, and with every sinew of his body as he breathes, she wants to hold him, kiss him, caress him so badly. For this, he must die NOW before she changes her mind. Kill him now. Stupid.fucking.piece.of.shit.male.

   She lowers her arm slightly, re-aiming the blade at his weapon, that biological deformity that destroyed her. Oh, Goddess, the thought of taking it off excites her. The blood. The pinching of the testicles, tearing them off one at a time. Oh the effort to get through that entire shaft, to cut right through it! Her heart races, pounding. So much blood there would be. Smear it everywhere. Invite all your girlfriends. We’ll dance in the fucking streets and throw it around like liquid confetti.

  Wait…getting carried away here. Supposed to leave.

  She turns again, packing the storm back in like an overstuffed suitcase, stomping that shit down, zip that up. Wipe it clean. Inhale. Exhale. Walk towards your car, yes, pocket that knife. Yes. Keys in the door, get in. Sit down. Calm down. One moment. Two. Breathe. Keys in ignition. Time to go home. Today is not the day. Go back to normal life, pretend this never, ever happened. You never knew him.