Slaying the Holidays

by Beatrix Hollow

After a helpful talk with my beautiful divorce therapist, I decided to get into manslaughter.

“Who are you?” I ask. His eyes find the clock on my wall and sparkle. “Your ten o’clock. But if this guy is done, I’m happy to start early.”

At some point, I had the bright idea to skip the chewing part and started to hide little pieces of my meal in a napkin so I could nibble on it later like a rat.

Maybe this was his entire plan since we first met. Stalk me, kill my date, and then drag me back to the sex hovel he made for me. Honestly, no one’s ever made me anything before. That’s a level of commitment that’s as flattering as it is disturbing. I mean, depending on the state of said hovel. A hole in the ground would fucking suck. What the hell am I thinking? He lets me rip away and looks down at me in surprise. I shouldn’t have moaned. How embarrassing. Kidnapping one-oh-one: don’t moan.

“I asked myself, what’s something people can see but aren’t allowed to look inside?” “Soren, please tell me this is a joke. That you don’t have a pile of Christmas presents in the garage filled with decaying victims.”

“Soren, look,” she sighs. “Can you come kill this guy? I was trying to get you him as a gift.”