I sometimes forget how much the kids take after me. Even if I’m not biologically their mother, they still get a lot of their personality from my side of the family. Namely impulse control. Sandra seems to be as impatient as the rest of us, it’s almost endearing.
Last Thursday she confessed that she had grown tired of waiting for her turn to kill so she took it upon herself to “relieve the tension”.
She went into such great detail describing the homeless woman who often followed her on her way to school. She never mentioned the woman because Sandra felt she was harmless enough which proved useful when seeking an outlet for her pent up emotions.
It was easy enough to lure her into thinking Sandra was going to offer her money in a less monitored area. From there, all it took was a piece of string found in the dumpster beside her to do the deed.
The old woman struggled for two minutes and fifteen seconds before she collapsed on the ground in convulsions until she did six minutes later from brain damage – or something medical that wasn’t strangulation. Sandra didn’t hold the rope at the right angle. If you crush their windpipe it’s over much cleaner, and faster. Instead, my little girl stood and watched an old woman shake around for six minutes before she just…stopped. For some, the slow kill is a more satisfying death than any gruesome murder but I’m rarely that girl unless I’m in a particularly vindictive mood.
Sandra is a slow killer. Her eyes just lit up as she told this story and she stared in absolute awe as she described the finally moments of a woman who pestered the wrong girl.
I’ll admit to living a little vicariously through my daughter, feeling that thrill of taking someone’s life with fresh eyes is a wonderful sensation. But it made me realize that this might actually be a sexual thing for Sandra.
I know, I’m not supposed to think of my little girl as an adult who has feelings and emotions and urges but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense that killing is about the release for her. I don’t remember feeling quite like that at her age but I know James does the same thing when he watches me take lives.
Watched me, anyways. It’s been a long time since he’s really participated in our little game. Apart from that woman a few months ago, he’s barely mentioned his role in my double life.
We used to play this game where he’d pick a letter of the alphabet and we’d find the first person in the phonebook and kill them. In our first and second year of marriage, we’d play it every few weeks and he would watch from the shadows as I mangled and murdered. Then we’d go home and have some of the most fantastic sex.
The spark’s just not there anymore. And, of course, those were the days before two children and enough family baggage to fill a circus tent but sometimes I miss that hunger that comes with youth and innocence and murder. I think Sandra is starting to bring that out in me again. Or at least she’s letting me live vicariously through her. That’s almost as good.
That’s pretty much it, this weekend; not a lot of anything else. It’s the calmer part of the summer before it suddenly fades away.
I guess I’ll check in with you later.
As always, dear readers,