Tuesday, April 18, 2023

Sweet Nothings - Short Story

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I killed him.

 

He didn't move. Blood was flowing from his body. I realized he was dead. But I didn't feel anything, not even a hint of remorse. He had been dead in my heart for a long time. I had never killed anyone before, not even an animal. I always believed that taking a life was a grave sin. But strangely, standing before his lifeless body, I didn't feel the terrible regret that overwhelms me every time I kill a mosquito that tries to suck my blood. Mosquitoes only take my blood, but he had sucked my soul dry. I believe I was right to kill him. Who can judge me? Who can punish me? God, if such a being exists, or Buddha, who died a long time ago?

 

I killed him because I loved him. I loved him more than my own life. I couldn't bear the thought of him living without me, breathing without me, existing on this earth without me. I had never loved a man like this before, and it had made me paranoid. When I saw men filling the streets, the offices, and the public transport, I started to hate them so much for their overwhelming presence on this planet. I wanted to see him everywhere, to make the world revolve around him, to have him be the only man on earth. I loved him so much that he began to hate me, to ignore me, to leave me alone in the dark, and eventually to leave me coldly.

 

I killed him because I wanted him to go to heaven quickly and be reborn quickly (I am a faithful believer). He had promised me that he would be the man of my life in the next life. He had no plans to live with me in this life. Actually, he didn't even promise me that. I suggested to him that we would be together in the next life, and he accepted it to console me for the grief he caused me. I believe in heaven as a refuge because I want him to be safe and sound as soon as I arrive. Now I worry about hell. What nonsense people talk about that place! I'm sure it doesn't exist!

 

Like all women, I didn't want to wait patiently. Living takes time. Waking up every day, working, eating, peeing, traveling, sleeping – life is always slow. This slowness irritated me, and I became furious. I couldn't wait for him to grow old slowly with his girlfriend and change his plans along the way. If she changed her mind and decided to live with him in the next life too, I was certainly screwed.

 

When I cut his throat, exactly where I had kissed him, I felt the same happiness as when I kissed him. The blood that touched my lips was warm, it tasted like him. I'm sure I didn't give him a very difficult death. He didn't have time to think or even see me because we had turned off the lights. I sniffed the blood like a tigress, I craved him, even at that moment. The irresistible warmth remained in his body, and I kissed him all over, taking my time. It wasn't madness or burning passion, but immense tranquility, a meditation on love.

 

I killed him because he wouldn't listen to me in this life.

"Darling, I love you. Do you love me?" I asked him this question two or three times until I lost all my dignity. He responded only once, in a short email where he declared his love for me: "Darling, I love you. I think about you a lot when I masturbate."

 

I had never been happier in my life with those sweet little words. My friend called him a jerk, but I found him adorable. Men should never reveal their "true" feelings to women because they will later use them against them. They are never discreet; even angelic women have an annoying side when they are hurt.

 

I also hated his enthusiasm for living without me, his favorite vacations with his friends, his birthday with his parents, his job that kept him busy, and his adventures with the girls he found "very cool." I didn't have a specific place in his life; I felt like his favorite pastime or the exotic bird he had no intention of keeping. He would come to see me from time to time, give me illusions of love, and then leave. He knew I loved him with an intense passion like in novels. It was too much for him; "too much love," he said. It was my only flaw. He didn't want to show his emotions like I did. But he loved me. I knew that, otherwise, why would I kill him?

 

His severed head is among these words. The police will come to investigate. I will soon escape, and they will not find me. It's funny; they will try to find the criminal, the cause of this cruel death. They will wipe the blood that has turned black from his throat and transport him to a hospital. Journalists will take many photos from various camera angles. I will watch them, and he will also watch them, smiling with his sparkling eyes. They will await justice for his life, by the law. But he and I do not wait for anything. I know he won't hate me; he will forgive me, shaking his head gently. He will kiss me, his killer, cuddle me with such passion. He will not judge me, ever.

 

I am overjoyed, an unbearable euphoria. Are there happy criminals? I am lucky. The suffering is over, the waiting is over, the pain is over, and he and I are over too. True happiness begins with his death.

 

Today, he died at 23.59hrs.

 

Tomorrow, we will be together at 00.01hrs. But we still have to wait.


By Jahooli Devi

French version of the same story : https://lovelogists.blogspot.com/2015/07/petits-mots-doux.html


 

 

 

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