Slaying the Holidays: A Dark Rom Com

by Beatrix Hollow

When I said "get a new hobby," I meant kayaking, not decking the halls with garlands of gore.

After a helpful talk with my beautiful divorce therapist, I decided to get into manslaughter. Maybe it's not the hobby she had in mind, but the idea always interested me, and there's plenty of predators I’d love to turn into prey. And what do you know? My therapist was right. I do feel better! She seems a little ethically confused and personally concerned. She’s even cuter grumpy and exasperated. We’d make the perfect couple if she’d stop threatening to call the FBI.

“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.”

I also happen to have the peculiar habit of looking for signs of psychopathy in normal people. I guess I think it would be fascinating for my barista to secretly kill people between one peppermint frappe and the next.

Researching killers and psychopaths is not only disturbing to nearly everyone but also doesn’t pay well.

The minute he steps out of my office, I redownload my dating app. I have my own homework before his next appointment. Get laid so I stop flirting with him.

I’m turning into a pervert at thirty-two. Or maybe I was always a secret pervert like my barista is a secret psychopath. He’s strangling gerbils, and I’m pretending to fuck my patient via cheap knockoffs mixed with dinner cocktails.

When coming across a murder scene, no one is prepared to see someone they know, but Soren is wearing leather gloves. Soren has a garrotte in his fist. Soren killed my date.

“You need to calm down,” he purrs into my ear. I go stiff in his arms. “That’s a good girl, Doctor Moore. We can’t let our emotions control our actions, right?”

My knees go weak, and Soren chuckles against my lips. He angles his head further and kisses me deeper. It’s unfortunate I’m kissing him back. Truly. My ethical dilemma of lusting after a patient is suddenly overshadowed by kissing a fucking murderer.

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.

I shouldn’t have moaned. How embarrassing. Kidnapping one-oh-one: don’t moan.

“Are you stealing food from the restaurant?” He asks in confusion. He peels open my coat pocket and sees my smashed dinner and a few napkins. “Weird,” he mumbles. “Leftovers are normal. Murder, however, isn’t,” I snap.

“Is this the romantic part?” I ask sarcastically. “If you find this romantic, maybe you need some couples therapy, not me.” He snaps the door shut again. “Now I’m being picked on by a man who thinks murder and chasing therapists is a hobby.”

“Doctor Moore, I’m going to have to insist that you marry me.” He pets the tree’s branches with gloved hands as my mouth drops open.

There’s a certain Hell for people who blush when a killer calls them their wife.

“So then, you agree to my terms? No cops, no FBI. You will need to marry me.” “Do I have to do that part?” I grumble. “That part is not negotiable. As well as moving in,” he adds. “This is kidnapping with more steps,” I sigh. He holds me against him, waiting for my answer. “I accept.”

“Oh,” I mumble behind my fingers. “I see.” He looks confused. I’ve made a killer look uncomfortable. Who knew I was this awkward? Certainly not me.

“No. Thomas liked that restaurant because they don’t have cameras in the parking lot,” he says. I stop walking. For the first time, it really sinks in that Soren might have saved me from something terrible. I never thought I’d be happy a killer kidnapped me from my date. Too bad Thanksgiving is over. I could have shared that I was grateful for murder.

“Goddamnit Soren. Can’t you paint?” “Like… with blood?” “No! Or kayak, I don’t know. I didn’t mean to murder people when I said get a hobby.” I sink into my chair with a frown.

This is a lot more fun than the last kill. Everyone should drag their therapist along for murders.

I never thought my career would lead me here. Giving a serial killer a blowjob in a potential victim's house. I’ve dropped to my knees to keep my client functioning.

“This isn’t happening. What was I thinking agreeing to marry you? Oh, that’s right, I didn’t want to die.” I slam my hands on the kitchen counter. “I never threatened death or marriage.” “It felt implied,” I snap. “Hmm, sounds like an anxiety issue on your end.” He fills up his glass with water. “Goddamnit, Soren. You kill people,” I hiss. “That’s definitely a you issue.” “Well, wifey, now it’s a we issue. When’s our family arrive?”

“I’m going to get cleaned up,” I sigh. This is a very new side to Soren for me. I open the freezer to grab a face mask and see a hand. I shut it back. Then I open it again. Yep, the hand is still there. “Soren, honey?”I bite out. “Yes, wifey?” He calls over his shoulder. “I think you left something in the freezer.” He walks over and peers inside. “Shit, I was looking for that,” he sighs.

One more night of play fucking and another set of twins will be on the way. My stomach feels elated, and I grimace. No breeding your therapist, you psychopath.

I nod, fighting the lump in my throat down. Serial killer one-oh-one, don’t cry when your therapist makes you feel like a puddle of goo. That would be embarrassing.