I Just Really Love You

She looked so beautiful right before it happened. Her pale hazel eyes with their knowing acceptance. She was a smart one, a lot smarter than the rest. I liked her. I liked talking to her too. Talking to them is usually the most draining part. I sit there, nod my head, listen to their stories. I absorb them into me. At least I’ll remember them once it’s all over.

She caught on quickly. Usually they try to plead with me, convince me not to do what I’m so clearly set on doing. They think they can change my mind, that they have some kind of power over me. This part is always plenty fun, but It’s not what I’m here for.

She knew right away there was no changing my mind. Maybe she was expecting it, maybe that’s why she let me get close in the first place. As soon as I took out the knife, she knew it was over.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Yes. I’m going to kill you.”

“Hm.”

She gave me this look of complete acceptance. Not happy, but not upset either. Devoid of emotion, her empty eyes saw right through me. In that moment she saw me for exactly who I was, and I caught a glimpse of her. She looked me up and down, eyed the knife for a second. Almost as if she was taking a mental photograph she’d never get a chance to look back on. She looked me square in the eye, silent.

“So I’m going to kill you.”

“Yes.”

I wasn’t really sure what to say, to be honest. I’m used to them putting up more of a fight. I looked at her, sitting on the edge of my motel bed. We’d been here plenty of times before. My story is always that I’m new to town, staying somewhere cheap ’til I can find a job and settle down. Really I just need somewhere cheap before I move on to the next town, the next affair, the next inamorata. I was thinking all of this silently when she spoke up.

“Do you mind if I write some letters?”

“Letters?”

“Yes, letters. There are some people who care about me here. I care about them too, you see, so I want to leave them something for after I’m gone.”

I told her I didn’t mind, and I walked over to the nightstand to grab a ledger and a pen. Just the ones that come with the room. I handed them to her and sat on the other side of the bed, my back to hers. I set the knife down, closer to her hand than to mine. This was a conscious decision, but in the moment I wasn’t sure why I’d made it. She never reached for it, though. She’s a high school teacher here. A biologist. She had bigger dreams at one point, but the job market isn’t particularly kind to those who go to the trouble of earning degrees. She settled for a life as a teacher, and it seems like she didn’t regret it. She loves the kids, and she can tolerate her coworkers. Her only gripes with the job are those teachers who just can’t find a single shit to give about their kids. But she’s happy otherwise.

“You can just write their addresses down, and I’ll-”
“I am.” I paused. Usually I feel like the one in charge during moments like these, but suddenly I felt the whole room flip on its head.

“I won’t read them, you know. I’ll just deliver them to the people they belong to.” She stopped writing, put her hands on the bed, and turned to face me.

“I don’t care if you do. I’m not going to be here much longer anyway, right?” That caught me off guard. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything at all. I just turned my head to face forward, and I could feel her doing the same. She wrote for a few more minutes, then set the ledger and the pen down on the nightstand.

“I guess I wrote these assuming you’d read them anyway. Regardless of what you said.”

“Do you want me to read them?” She thought about this for a second.

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think so,” she repeated. “But it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if you did.”

We sat there in silence for a minute or two. I usually got so into this, but tonight I just felt… dirty. Not like I couldn’t or wouldn’t do it. But it didn’t come as naturally as it normally does.

“So, are you going to kill me now?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.” I picked the knife back up, and I walked around to her side of the bed. I looked at her, she looked at me. She told me this joke once, when we first met.

“Why did the man with no arms fall off his bicycle?”

“Why’s that?”

“Because someone threw a refrigerator at him.” She thought it was hilarious, but I didn’t get it until well after it’d been told. I’m still not sure if I get it. Maybe that’s the point.

So I put my free hand on the back of her head and I pulled her in tight for one last embrace. We kissed, and of course her heart wasn’t in it, but neither was mine by that point. Then, what’s usually the good part: The Blood. The Blood gushed from her throat, both from the gash I’d just made and the inside of her mouth. I could taste it in my mouth, and I could feel her squirming and making noise. There was blood on my shirt, her shirt, the bedsheets, everything. It felt like it never stopped flowing, and for a second I was convinced that that was the case. That her neck would just keep bleeding forever, drowning me in the mess I’d made of her, of us, of myself.

But then it stopped, so I started cleaning up. I was in a bit of a haze by this point. I took care of the body, the bed, my clothes, and so on. I felt myself going through the motions, but I guess what I was feeling was the not feeling anything at all. Then came time to wash the knife. A simple procedure, one I’d carried out plenty of times before. I picked up the knife still dripping with Her, but it felt heavier. The blood of every other woman who’d met her demise by its blade never seemed so thick. But suddenly it felt like I could barely pick it up. I looked it over, turned it around in my hand, but the blade had disappeared. All I could see was her, them, everyone. I saw her students picking on substitute teachers until it became clear she wasn’t coming back. I saw her mom calling her worried when she didn’t show up to their weekly brunch. I saw the neighborhood strays going unfed, pawing at her front door.

It wasn’t the first time I’d done something like this, so it didn’t take long for me to pack everything up, cut what ties I had, and move on to the next town. Del Rio was my next stop. It’s almost a little funny I hadn’t been there yet. Seems like the perfect place for guys like me. She sat with me in the passenger seat that night, incorporeal, silently absorbing my thoughts and judging me from beyond. I usually don’t like the company, but hers I didn’t mind. It felt almost relieving to know that my crimes wouldn’t go completely unpunished. Even if the FBI never catches up to me, I’ll always have her to watch over me. And the next time the noise and the squirming and the bleeding all stops, I won’t be left alone. Because she’ll be there. As long as I live, she’ll be with me. I’m just not sure if that takes the fun out of living or finally gives it some meaning.