THE ATTACK

The target is trussed up, hooded and helpless, suspended upside down from ankles, swinging in the centre of the room.  I attack; beating the skinny naked body as hard as I can with my baseball bat, there’s no sound except the thwack of wood on flesh.  So, I scream “I hate you!  I hate you!” at the top of my voice to break the loneliness.  There’s no reaction, but bruises start to appear on the skin.  Not good enough.   Maybe next time, I’ll use the golf club and hear bones break, ribs, an arm ... It would be deserved, because my God I really can’t stand her ... 

After stubbing my cigarette out on the soft flesh of her wrist, I take the knife and run its sharpness over the paleness.  So pretty; the blood running from the wounds is a release.  I could draw stuff or write.  Yes, I like writing.  I’ll etch her misdemeanours over her back.  I dig really deep, the blade scraping bone.  Finally, to my relief, I hear her crying and the beautiful tears run down my face.