Victorian Psycho

by Virginia Feito

Whoring daughters are far worse than a sickly or a dead daughter, the latter of which ultimately graces a family with an aura of martyrdom. Worse, even, than a hysterical daughter one can quietly hide away in an attic or asylum.

‘But it didn’t . . . look to be in any pain . . .’ Andrew says feebly. ‘Oh, but it was,’ I say, ‘It was.’ I wipe blood from my cheek with the back of my hand. ‘All living creatures are.’

At eight thirty sharp breakfast is removed, as is my will to live.

I take in the guests as they recount the tedious incidents of the day with pronounced excitement – the men proud to arouse admiration in the women, the women thrilled to experience an emotion beyond contempt for the men.

I fail to understand why men think talk of violence will distress women. Women, who bleed all over themselves every month, who rub blood clots between their fingers and burst them like insects, and sometimes can’t because they’re not blood clots, they’re tongue-coloured strings of meat from the womb. Women who burst open in childbirth, vagina splitting and anus sagging, tiny, hardening fingernails clawing inside of them, placentas like thick filet mignon.

Inside myself, my Darkness rests within my rib-cage, a jailed animal grown listless with domestication. I have not felt my soul for a very long time. It may have slipped out, unbeknownst to me. I’ve seen others lose their shame or dignity in this way.

Little girls everywhere will know they can aspire to kill, too – ’tis not only the men that do.