“I’ve been in the mood for murder as of late. I have an unorthodox thirst for it. It’s like an insect inside my brain readjusts the wires, and instead of thirsting for a glass of champagne, I crave the heat from fresh blood expelled from a collated artery to coat my hands and drip from my fingers.” Someone drops their glass. That certainly took a turn. “But I’m trying to be better, truly. Because I get to see that beautiful face every day, even though she can be unnaturally optimistic”—he points to me with his knife, smiles sadly—“and it can be mildly annoying. I’d rather not let her down.”
