I told myself I wouldn’t do this again. I told myself that the therapy was helping and that my addiction was under control. I told myself that I was stronger than this cycle and it was my job to break it, that the future generations depended on it. I knew that the path to health was tricky, not impossible, and fully achievable with the right attitude. I also told myself regular lies.  

It’s hard to remember when it all started. Does anyone ever really notice when things start changing inside them, or is it a slow descent into madness? I feel like it’s similar to a slow acting poison that sneaks into your blood, hidden, until it’s too late to over power it, because it’s more you than you are you. 

What do you think? Do you see yourself as a perfect individual who assesses everything rationally and objectively? Do you see yourself as a reliable person with importantly weighted wisdom and judgement? Do you connect with the status of morality? Or do you lie to yourself too?

I think there are two types of people in this world when it comes to the depravity of darkness in the mind. There are those that accept it and revel in it, and there are those that lie about it.

The couple stood out immediately with the constant gazing into each others eyes and the inability to not be touching in some way. The man was much taller than the tiny redhead, his broad shoulders towering above her small ones. She looked like a doll with her porcelain skin and soft strawberry hair. They appeared to be fully wrapped in the other, like nothing else around them mattered and that all was right in their little bubble.

I loved to pop bubbles. 

I wanted to interject with a small initial interaction to be as non threatening as possible. I wanted to be on the radar, but in a passing and unassuming way. Small interactions were very common with my position at the restaurant.  

I have been working at the fine dining establishment for a few months now. My bosses stayed off my back and I took pride in the perfectly balanced cocktails I produced in the romantic atmosphere The Stop provided to the people in the city. It often brought in happy couples with its large open windows and overflowing bouquets of flowers and greenery. It always felt like a very British brunch to me, but I had only seen those things on TV, not in person, so I wasn’t a reliable source of information on that front. What I was reliable for was pulling a man away from a woman.

Now, before you start jumping to the conclusion that I’m an awful bitch, let’s consider looking at this a different way. I would like to offer the idea that the man is the villain in this story. He is, after all, the one falling for the trap. I feel like I’m a bit of a vigilante for the women in this city, because I doubt anyone else is taking the time to vet their lovers for them and without me they’re wasting their precious time on a rat that will eat anything in front of it. 

It all started when my ex of five years started fucking the barista from the coffee shop we visited every Sunday morning. He told me it happened only once at the end, but I think we all know men aren’t the best at measuring things. 

I noticed the glances and very, very heavy silence while putting our coffee orders in, fairly quickly, I think. I would say I’m a pretty perceptible person and especially so as a woman with a handsome boyfriend. I was okay with the attention women gave him, because I was definitely a girl’s girl, and could appreciate the appreciation, but I certainly did not appreciate the reciprocity.  

While I did notice that something was off and that something super fucked up was going on, I chose to ignore it. Don’t judge me.

I often roll the question around in my mind and try to pick the point in the horrible situation of when I turned from being the victim to the predator that was thirsty for someone other than myself to fucking bleed. I initially wallowed in self imposed self pity, riding on the pain of being mistreated by the man whom she loved with all her being, releasing the image of growing old together, to mentally shifting to planning his demise. At some point, my thoughts started turning sharper and more angry, less wallowy and more… hungry. I was hungry for pain that wasn’t my own. 

If you have a good memory you will recall me pointing out that I am a girl’s girl and I do truly put the full blame on him. I completely overlooked her part in willingly infiltrating the dynamic of our happy relationship that she had a front row seat to every Sunday. I think it’s a little bit fair to say this is a little bit of a cracked perspective, but the betrayal from her never really landed and never really has. She was a basic bitch of a barista in the market for a little thrill, I could appreciate that. So it left only one person for me to put my attention on and that should be fairly easy for you to guess who. 

One balmy afternoon in the city of Los Angeles, I got the idea that maybe my ex needed a bit of divine intervention and a little shove off his disgusting path was precisely what he, and I, needed. He needed it because he was an idiot and I was tired of looking at his lying face, and I needed it because I was pissed off. The thoughts started churning in my head and I rifled through them to find the one that fit best for his punishment. 

I started with the possible situation of simply confronting him in the privacy of our home, like any self respecting woman would do. I think at this point you’re picking up on the fact that my sensibilities have eroded away and I no longer give a fuck if I cause a scene. 

My second idea was to accuse him in the spot it all happened, at the coffee shop, in the middle of the place’s peak sales and watch as all the little heads turned our way and lasered their stares deep into the drama as it unfolded before their very eyes. I liked this idea until I realized how short lived it would end up being. Sure, the embarrassment would strike deep, but the barista would have to work every weekend knowing that some of those customers watched her life fall apart while my cheating shit head would basically get off for free, other than that horrific moment. I didn’t want the blame to sit on her poor shoulders, and I wanted him to hurt longer than a Sunday morning altercation. I wanted it to last longer than that, otherwise what was the point? I never did anything half-assed and I wasn’t starting now. 

I will spare you the details of all the depraved things I did to his body, but only because my therapist says ruminating on scenarios I’m trying not to repeat isn’t exactly helpful in overcoming them and leaving them in the past, which is where they belong. Some of you therapists may already be barking in your educated opinions, but I trust my therapist and I’d like to think I’m paying her well enough that I can trust her opinion. With our regular connections each week I also feel a companionship between the two of us. Again, I can hear your barking about how unprofessional this is and how you licensed professionals would never cross that boundary, but I beg to differ. 

You see, therapists are drawn to the field because they want to help people. They have an inclination towards the broken, and they feel called to be servants for the people struggling out in the world, on their own, with no guidance or emotional support. I think therapists have a strong sense of justice, and feel overcome with the need to right wrongs and advocate for the underdog. My initial sessions began very guarded and very broad. I knew I needed an outlet for the dark thoughts that pushed into my every day activities, but I also didn’t feel like confessing any wrongdoings and going to fucking prison; I was guilty, not an idiot, and there is no way they allow wine, Trader Joe’s dark chocolate peanut butter cups, and Game of Thrones in that celled fortress. 

For whatever reason her gentle prodding started slowly thawing me, and shortly after so did she. People valued people that were transparent and brutally honest: it made them feel safe to show their true selves. 

Fast forward to my current position at The Spot, as a bartender, watching my next assignment feed his date chocolate covered strawberries. So cliche. The therapist and I chose this cheating husband over the others because of one large reason, and that reason was that his wife was pregnant with a baby girl. His filthy actions were not only affecting his devoted wives future, but also their unborn daughters. Double whammy. 

The wife knew he was cheating and didn’t know what to do with herself being pregnant and not wanting her daughter to grow up with a shitty dad. She wanted to ignore the infidelity in hopes that it was a one time thing, but I think you can use your brain and know it isn’t ever a one time thing, because men were greedy. She had been confiding in the very same therapist I had, and we all agreed on one major thing and it was that people deserved justice and certain people deserved to be punished. I’ll let you guess what unfolded from there. 

Actually, no I won’t. I’d like to admit it out loud. 

I kill people. 

I kill people and I am doing my very best to stop.

I regularly attend therapy and talk through the error of my ways.

I admit to the injustice of taking a man’s life and how absurd it is that I think of myself as a vigilante for scorned women. 

I meditate on releasing my anger and grounding myself in the right path. 

I do not plan to act on my dark depravities any longer. 

And I will stop telling lies.