Work this past couple of days has been nothing short of stressful. The entire week has been consumed with me running errands for my boss, meeting new clients and drafting court papers. I've barely had any time for myself. Oh, and then there's how my coworkers treat me—the final straw. They treat me like some sort of specimen, their suspicious eyes following my every move. I hear their whispers, accusations and ill words every time I enter a new room. Some people have even been bold enough to air out their accusations loudly in my presence. Others come and speak to me under the guise of being concerned but I know the truth. I know it's all a ruse. Their true intentions show on their faces— and through the lack of empathy in their words. To be honest, it's taken a lot of energy and self-control for me not to snap at them.

My eyes drift over to the never-ending pile of documents stacked on my desk and I plop helplessly unto my desk, letting out a groan of annoyance. I lift my head up and lay back into my chair, taking a few minutes to recharge, staring mindlessly into space. The memories of me killing slowly drift into my mind and I cross my legs, the vivid image causing a tingling sensation between my legs. Well, this feeling's new.

Laying low has not been easy for me. Not a day has gone by without thoughts of murder creeping into my thoughts— which is so unlike me. I usually have some form of self-control but it's slowly slipping. It's no longer fleeting thoughts but has grown into an urge I'm finding very difficult to suppress. It feels like an annoying itch I can't reach, one I'm desperate to scratch.

By tonight— the craving will no longer go unanswered.

With much effort, I turn my focus back to the tasks at hand and tackle them diligently. By closing time, I'm more than halfway done and the heap of files have drastically reduced. I look over at my completed pile and I smile, feeling a sense of pride.

I drive by a costume supply store on my way home to pick up some products ahead of the night I have planned. Once home I take a shower and go to sleep tired from the day's work. I wake up still feeling unrested and I remain in bed, pulling one of my pillows closer for a snuggle. My plans for tonight come to mind and I shoot out of bed, the mere anticipation of what I have in store creates a surge of energy within me, pushing away the feeling of tiredness deep down. I grab my supplies and head to the bathroom.

I first apply some cleanser onto a cotton pad, clean my face and wash the residue off before patting it dry with a paper towel. I then apply some spirit gum to my nose and its surrounding areas before applying a silicone mold. I get to work, ready to change my appearance.

I look into the bathroom mirror, marveled at the sight before me. A whole new face stares back at me through the mirror. The shape of my eyes are now almond courtesy of eye tapes. False lashes have further enhanced this shape, giving them a siren look. My nose is different too. What was once a button nose has an elongated bridge and tip. My make up skills have allowed me create the illusion of a more defined jawline and cheekbones. I beam proudly at my handiwork, grateful for that one summer I spent at an SFX camp.

I grab my car keys and head out the door, feeling very eager. I drive to a farther part of the city. A place where either myself or my car is less likely to be recognized in case something goes wrong. I drive around till I spot a bar. I quickly park my car and head inside.

The bar's interior is pulsing with energy, illuminated by swirling disco lights that cast vibrant colors across the room. A few people are on their feet dancing to the upbeat music being played while others are huddled up in conversations, an assortment of drinks on their tables. I head over to the bartender's counter, take a seat on one of the swivel bar stools and order a drink. A Bloody Mary with an extra shot of vodka. The bartender gets straight to work making the drink, mixing the ingredients. I watch, a little intrigued at how the drink is being made. The fluidity of the bartender's movements indicate that he's been at this job a while. Once my drink is ready, I grab it, spin my seat so I'm now facing the crowd and take a long sip from the straw. The cold drink goes down smoothly, leaving a little burn. I survey the place till I notice a dimly lit section with a couple of seats. I hop off the chair and make my way there.

Not long after I have taken my seat, a very young looking lady enters. She appears to be at most twenty and carrying a baby on her hip. Her eyes move around the room frantically as if she's looking for someone. She stops searching and begins to move forward determined towards someone. My eyes follow her movements till she comes to a halt in front of a very drunk man seated at a table with many bottles of alcohol on it. She snatches a beer bottle from his hand right before it touches his lips.

"Where is all the money I have been saving for the baby's formula!" she asks angrily.

Her outburst catches the attention of some people in the bar, who watch on keenly as the scene unfolds.

"Give me back my beer," he slurs.

She refuses to hand him the beer and continues to yell at him. He then gets up from his seat, snatches the beer from her hand and shoves her hard, showing complete disregard for her safety or that of the baby she's holding. She stumbles back but thankfully falls into one of the seats instead of the floor. He stumbles off, leaving her alone crying in the bar.

I get up and follow him outside. I easily catch up. I deliberately bump into him and he stumbles, but I catch him before he falls. He opens his mouth to speak, likely  in an attempt to rebuke me, but I cut him off, apologizing profusely.

"You know, I couldn't help but notice what happened in there," I say, leaning in closer. "She obviously doesn't deserve you."

The lady he had the altercation with—his girlfriend, I suppose—steps out of the bar and sees us standing closely together. Her facial expression contorts into one of heartbreak and she walks away with the baby, tears rolling down her eyes.

If only she knew the immense favor I was about to do her.

I turn my attention back to him. "She doesn't know how to treat you. You deserve someone who knows how to treat a man like you. Real good," I add, rubbing my finger across his chest.

He grunts in response, his breath reeking of alcohol.

I move away from him, making a show of dusting him off. "Well, I guess I'll see you around," I say with one of my famous charming smiles before walking off counting silently.

1... 2... 3...