"You could make me commit murder. Baby, I'd kill for you."

~S.G.

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I've learned that every emotion has a physical feeling attached to it. A schoolboy crush feels like a morning glory blooming in your chest with the honeydew still slipping off its petals. Humiliation is a prickly urchin that steamrolls you as you try to sputter out the right words to say. Jealousy is a ravenous thing that eats you alive until you're a slave to its whims.

But you know what the most potent emotion of them all is?

Betrayal.

Betrayal is slime that sticks to your throat, and no matter how much you claw at it, it will never go away. The pain will subside eventually, of course, but the moment people look at you for the first time, they'll see it in your eyes.

I've gotten good at compartmentalizing my emotions until they turn into personified versions of themselves. My own little creations. It's like dipping a hand inside your rib cage to hold the still-beating heart right in the palm of your hand. That's the time to channel your energy in a positive way and get introspective about the life you lead, as my therapists have said.

But therapy's never helped. I think I was just born rotten, and that's fine with me. It's only a matter of coming to terms with it.

Taking the tarp out of the garage, I make my way down the stairs and into the basement, where I then put it under and around Professor Kim. He stirs as I move him this way and that, but I keep going until everything is set up. Then, when everything is neat and orderly, I crouch down to be level with him. I'll lower myself for him just this last time.

"Why does it have to be you, hm?" I ask as I peer at my switchblade, how it so erotically catches the flickering lights over us.

"Huh..." The professor is having a hard time coming to, and as much as I want to kick at him until he's nothing but a lump of bones and skin, I let him assess the situation he's landed in naturally; I won't refuse a dying man that luxury.

"I mean, what haven't I given you? What have I not done for you?" I continue. I have to swallow down bile from remembering the night he fucked you. But looking at him now, fidgeting with his shackles and frowning down at the tarp, he almost makes me angrier than I already am. Of course, the only thing he thinks about is himself. Not about how he's hurt you, or how he makes you feel like a slut.

Everyone's so fucking predictable. When it comes down to it, the universe is centered around each person, each 'protagonist' of their own life. The sun orbits around their gravitational pull while people in the vicinity work to preserve that fact. Though no one says it out loud, that's how they all think about themselves.

Yet, I've always lived outside of my own body, like I'm looking down at myself from a third person's point of view. Why does everyone melt into each other so seamlessly while I'm doomed to look on from the outside? I can't help but be bitter when I think about how life would be different if I were just... Better.

(why can't you be more like your brother?)

"Wait... Your mask..." The professor's eyes widen as he tries to study my face, but I put up my spare hand.

"Don't bother. You don't know me," I say. "It won't matter in the long run, anyway. I... I thought I'd release you, actually. That's why I kept the mask on every time I visited you. An act of mercy, if you will, so you wouldn't turn me in. But when I thought more about that plan, I realized how stupid I was being. All it takes is one anonymous tip about this address, and boom, I'd go to prison for life. And what's the fun in that?"

He can only summon the strength to gawk at me, but I am beyond caring as I become preoccupied with the duty I'm tasked with. I focus on his jugular, determining the best angle to work my knife into. I need the cut to spray the least blood as possible, while also making it look like an amateur's handiwork.

Tough stuff, right?

"Hey, what're you doing with that knife?" Professor Kim asks. The panic in his voice is so delicious that my grip on the handle slips just a bit.

You might think I'm unhinged by now, someone who loves to bathe in the blood of their enemies, but I'm far from that. I'm not a natural exterminator, and I don't revel in the scales of life and death. I was only born with the love of raw justice and the mentality to carry it out. A blessing just as much a curse.

When the professor sees that his words aren't exactly registering, he cries in a last-ditch effort, "Please! I have a wife and kid!" Again, my grip loosens, but for a different reason.

Since when does he care about his family? Is it when he told his wife he had to stay overtime to grade papers, or when he was nailing a girl in his office? Did he mean to say I do, or did the priest not say until death do us part? He's never gotten caught. He's never been sorry for a thing in his life.

Do you want to know what else I realized in all of this, Naomi? It's that men like him don't change. They only shed their snakeskin.

I raise the knife. "I'll send them your greetings, then."

His mouth eternally twists in horror as the blade dips into flesh. One, two, three, all to the beat of a waltz. Like a child dipping his toes into hot bathwater, I go about my work tentatively but quickly, and I'm ashamed to say that I relish the sound of him choking on his blood, gurgling and reaching for my arm but failing.

Once I make enough markings for my satisfaction, I sit back to look at the fruits of my labor. The professor emits nothing but ragged wheezes, and I sit beside him, offering my company until he takes his last breath.

I have to hand it to him. If he were a normal guy, he'd have died from the blood loss by now, but this stubborn son of a bitch really wants to live, doesn't he? It was easier the last time. 

Finally, he lays still after a few more minutes. I can't help the tinge of a smile gracing my lips. Not one fingerprint on him, and the work does, indeed, look like a first-timer's. I stab him a few more times in random places: forearm, chest, face. They create the atmosphere of an urgency that is unmistakable. I'm careful to choose my angles wisely in this, as well. These will serve as the self-defense wounds, not the deliberate attack. The evidence points to a story of spiteful lust, passion in the shadows.

It makes me disgusted with myself to hide my work from the public eye. Doesn't hiding what you did only point the guilty finger at you? It reminds me of Seokjin. He always slithers out of the police's grip with a handful of artfully constructed alibis, a touch of poison, and cash. It causes me more pain than you realize to see his competition eliminated one by one by Korea's heartthrob, while I can do nothing about it.

My obstacle stood in the way of the highest order known to man: love. And what does he waste life on? Fame? The satisfaction of seeing the unknown murderer on screen?

I'm starting to understand that he doesn't see his acts as just a necessary evil. What makes him and me different is that that's his idea of a fun time. It all reflects what he is on the inside: a serpent. He gets it from his mother.

Wiping the blood my hands, I take out the professor's phone and go through his messages to find the perfect girl. A shame, really, that I can't take the credit on the masterpiece that is my basement. I mean, if I just did it on canvas, I could sell it as a Jackson Pollock piece.

Well, maybe with a dash more scarlet than his usual style.

Here's a looker: Eve Kennedy, a psychology major. Her name intrigues me, and when I begin to dig a little deeper, I can't tear my gaze away from her.

Boy, can white girls work it sometimes.

Her straight, blonde hair falls past her waist, and her eyes beckon me closer. They're the shade of green that can revive a forest to breathe in the scent of life, emerald with the touch of blooming confidence. However, I can tell she's still in her shell, because she only has a few posts and none of the brazen boldness you have. Her tits stay firmly covered in the public eye.

Her image is squeaky clean from every angle, but here she is, sending an array of dirty messages and pictures for the professor's enjoyment before the disappearance. The things people say behind a screen.

I grin to myself as I see the puzzle pieces clicking into place. With her in the picture, it'll be an open-and-shut case. Who in the APD would drag this out if it came to a double murder and a cheating scandal to boot? Even if APD wanted to investigate beyond the surface, UT would certainly have none of it. They'd rather pay them to keep their traps shut than be associated with such a humiliating stain.

I wrap the tarp up, careful not to let any of the blood drop, and lug him into the garage to put in the trunk of my car. For something that's close to scrap metal by now, it sure purrs like a kitten when I turn it on to ride.

The interior smells like new leather—courtesy of my dashboard air filter—and as I pull out of the garage, the radio plays an 80's song that makes me want to melt into its vaporwave.

Just like old times.

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안녕 여러분! I hope everyone enjoyed
this chapter! It finally happened...
Any thoughts on what'll happen next?
Let me know!

It's been a hot minute since I've
thanked everyone for reading this
book. I can't believe I've gotten as far as
I have with this. I never thought
it would be possible. I mean... it's
just insane to me how people like
my work enough to come week after
week for updates. I don't even know
what I did to deserve such an amazing
support base on here.

OK IM GETTING EMOTIONAL I NEED TO STOP-

QOTD: What country is everyone from?

I asked this question on my other book,
but this is a new audience, so I thought
I'd ask it again. Personally, I'm from the US, but
I lived in Korea for about 5 years before moving back!

Comment your answer inline!

Until next time, happy reading!

Love,
Haneul