By Mikayla Spitse
I look beside me at the man who is not my husband. I watch as his chest rises and falls, eyes still shut as he soaks in the bliss of an orgasm. This is not the first time I’ve slept with a man who is not my husband. He is but one of the many I’ve known, I never go back to the same man twice. I’m careful not to leave any trace of myself with them in their bed. Use payphone only, never give names, barely speak. We both have business to attend to and we leave it at that. I have perfected this technique. I look at the man I have fucked; I don’t even know his name. I don’t mind.
Suddenly I feel thirsty. I get up to go to the washroom.
“Where are you going?” he asks. I smile at him.
“Water,” I say motioning to my throat. He cocks an eyebrow at me because he thinks he knows what’s coming. But really, my throat is killing me. I lean over the sink cupping my hands to catch the water. I can’t get it into my mouth fast enough. It’s not enough. I put my mouth as close to the faucet as I can and sip from it like a fountain. It’s not helping. I walk out to ask him if I can get a glass and find him sleeping, his head rolled over facing away from me, his thick neck bulging towards me. I feel a flush over my body; I’ve never felt this before. Is it guilt? No, it couldn’t be, it never has been. I walk over towards him to gather up my things, leave before he gets up and asks for more. He wasn’t satisfying the first time–don’t want a repeat. I bend down by his bed to grab my shirt and his neck is in my face. I black out.
As I start to regain consciousness I become aware of a taste in my mouth reminiscent of the smell of coins. I look around to find myself lying in a pool of blood.
Fuck, I think. I must have knocked my head.
That would explain the taste of blood. I search for the wound with my fingers and find none. I look up at the bed and see the sheets are stained red. Slowly, I rise up from the floor. I almost let out a scream before I throw my hand up to my mouth. In the bed lies the man I have just slept with, his head detached from his neck.
I couldn’t have done this. I go back into the bathroom; my face and mouth are covered in blood.
There is no fucking way.
Really–how could I? My teeth, average sharpness of any other person on earth, could not have possibly gnawed through the flesh, muscle, and bone of this man.
I debate on calling the police.
Can’t do that. You’ll be put away for murder AND known for adultery.
And as simply as that, I leave. I clean myself up, dress, and leave. This man never knew my name, and I never knew his–and now he is dead. As I get into my car I feel the effects of shock wear off and I begin to panic. I still think it’s impossible, but the evidence was there in front of me, on me, and in me. I chewed the head off a man. I grab a grocery bag from the backseat of my car and throw up. I wait a few minutes for my breathing to return to normal, and then I start my car and drive home–to my oblivious husband. Just like any other afternoon of cheating, I return to him, make him dinner, and ask how his day went. I admit, I’m surprised by how well I have handled the fact that I just killed a man. In fact, I feel a little exhilarated.
My husband asks me for sex and I oblige like always, still high off the rush. I wonder if I’ll bite his head off when I’m finished with him too. I don’t love my husband, but I still hope that I won’t do it. He would be traced to me for sure. He isn’t some stranger I found on Craigslist. After we finish, I fall asleep. When I awake the next morning I touch my face. It’s clean; my mouth doesn’t taste of blood. I look to the side of the bed my husband sleeps on. His head is still attached to his neck and his chest is still rising and falling, slowly. I feel a brief moment of disappointment before I remember what the consequences of killing my husband would be. I wonder, perhaps, if the incident the day before was a fluke. Some weird fit of dehydration. I need to know.
I crawl out of bed and go downstairs to my laptop. A quick search on Craigslist and I find a semi-attractive man with a toned body who’s looking for sex. I copy down his number to take to the phone booth down the street, once my husband leaves for work. I always get a rush off of doing this, but today it is completely different. I am a scientist about to conduct her most anticipated experiment. I honestly can’t tell what I want my outcome to be. In a sick way, I hope it happens again. I want to remember it happening.
Yeah, you’re fucked up. I think to myself. I don’t care. The high was too great. The high of cheating and the high of murder…
I’m never coming down.
Sure enough, after the next affair the same thing occurred. Sore throat, blacking out, waking up, finding the head detached from the body. This time there was absolutely no surprise. I wonder to myself, however, why after being with my husband the previous night it did not occur. For some reason, the urge didn’t extend to him. Perhaps because sex with him is more mandatory and less pleasure oriented.
Over the next few weeks the news finally starts making the connections. I sit on the sofa with my oblivious husband, sipping my tea as news reporters stand baffled by the story. I feel God-like, although it would probably be more appropriate to feel more Satanic. Nonetheless, I feel fucking great. My husband sitting beside me is shaking his head.
“There are some seriously crazy people out there,” he says, mournfully. He’s always been soft, too caring of others even when he doesn’t know them. I admired it when we met. Now it just frustrates me.
“Who do you think did it?” I ask him. I’m curious to know what others are thinking of me. He furrows his brow.
“Probably some drug addict. Someone hooked on some crazy drug like bath salts or something.” It takes everything in me not to laugh.
Since the news story aired it’s been harder for me to find men. They’re all on high alert now for a crazed killer and not taking any chances. I’m getting bored. The rest of the week holds no promise for me; online ads, seeking women to have sex with, are disappearing in my surrounding area.
Another detail was added to the story this week; they found a woman’s hair in the bed of one of the dead men. They say that they’re going to go back to other crime scenes and check it over again. I’m sure they will find more. Damn it, I should have thought about that. My fun is being taken away from me. I spend the rest of the day pouting, sexually frustrated and bloodthirsty. When my husband comes home he senses my tension, and with a sly smile begins kissing my neck and tugging at my clothes. I sigh and give in. At this point, I don’t even care. I haven’t been with another man in weeks, and if this is as good as it gets, I guess I’ll take it.
I wake up with the taste of blood in my mouth. I don’t look beside me; I know what is lying there. I am not sad about it, but I know that I am fucked. My luck has run out. I am no longer shrouded in mystery- my husband is dead in bed beside me and there is no one to blame but myself. They will run the hair samples they collected at the other crime scenes to mine and they’ll be a match. There is no denying it now. I am a killer, and soon the world will know my name.
Maybe I don’t hate the sound of that.
Photo Credit: Nate Nolting