They Never Learn

by Layne Fargo

Tyler’s body is no longer under his control. He’s twitching, contorting, spine arching, lifting his back off the floor so he’s supported only by his head and heels. He finally lets out a scream—throaty, guttural at first, then keening higher, turning into a sob.

Tyler’s eyes widen—and this, this is my favorite part. The abject terror that takes over their faces. That’s how I know they’re finally seeing me, realizing what I truly am.

I’ve spent the past sixteen years murdering men who deserve it, and I’m not about to get sloppy now.

Who’s smiling now, motherfucker?

data can be manipulated. Just like people.

Even in his final moments, I doubt he learned his lesson. But I didn’t kill him to teach him a lesson; I killed him to carve him out of this world like a tumor. And I’d do it again.

If men like that could learn the error of their ways, I wouldn’t have to teach so many of them a lesson.

killing a man is so much more satisfying than fucking a man could ever be.

We fuck until the water runs cold, and the whole time I’m imagining that the red sluicing over us is blood.

My story was fiction, but it was about how the world should be—how it would be, if we could turn men’s actions back on them. Make them fear us instead.

I enjoyed every second: their screams, their blood, the life draining from their eyes. She’s still afraid of me, and she should be. I belong in a cage.

He’s just like the rest of them. Bash, Alex. My father. They want us to bend and bend, let them say and do whatever they want to us. They get away with it, over and over again.