Home with Brad
After spending that night in the hotel room together, the idea of becoming roommates seemed like a logical idea. He helped me out, allowing me to stay at friends’ houses until we were able to find an apartment of our own, which really only took a week or so. His parents liked me well enough, and with time, even the cats became settled into a routine that seemed as if it had existed for ages.
We attended dinners and events, being liked well enough by the rest of society. Being very compliant with each other, there was little arguing, except when he threw a temper tantrum, acting like a little spoiled brat, causing me to leave on an adventure of my own. Overall, it was predictably good.
With more offerings brought to us as a power couple, the need to hunt became useless, a thought of the past that we did only on occasions of boredom. Things like MOMs Ball and Decadence became out outlandish events of the year, something we would look forward to on a regular basis outside of the normalcy. Eventually, Brad even pushed his vegetarian ways on me, but I still stalked out for the occasional bite of warm flesh.
A supporter of my art, he would work while I went on business trips supporting my art. Every once in a while, he would accompany me, if it were a place that he had never been to before, but most of the time, he let me carouse on my own. It was in these far off places that I truly enjoyed the hunt of the kill, reveling in what it was like to be single again.
It was these trips that he, too, began to look forward to, as I was accused of being a nagging bitch, which is probably true for the most part. While the cats away, the mice will play, and it was through my cats’ eyes that I learned this. Like I said, cats are familiars, so when I was gone, I would meditate, gaze through their eyes and see what was happening in the world around them.
Through this, I learned of Brad’s unfaithfulness. Just like on that second date, one girl was not enough for him, always enjoying being the center of attention. At first, this did not bother me, until I found some of my articles missing.
She was dipping into my money, taking money that belonged to me. Or, I should say, Brad was using his fleeting enjoyments out of our joint account. A little here and there is not bad, but when he started to spoil her, savoring the flavor of her young flesh over mine, that’s when the problems came in.
At this point, we had already been married, the event passing as a normal day, part of the inevitable routine. On my trips across the globe to promote my art, I had allowed myself to become stronger, learning all sorts of new tricks along the way from old souls whose true identities I’d never know. This would allow the fate of my name to inescapably come into play.
Brad was letting his passing amusement while I was away take too much time in his brain, and after I saw him present her with a diamond necklace nicer than he had ever bought for me, it was time. In France, in a Romanian soul that very well could have been Tristan Tzara, I learned exactly what it was that I should do. Training for weeks to ensure my ability, I waited until just the right time.
I had learned possession, how to take charge of someone else’s body. Since Brad’s little fling was a young changeling, she was very easy to possess, most of the time having no clue what was even going on, save a minor complaint of feeling momentarily dizzy or a cold, as if a chill had ran through her body. Though I was stuck in the confines of her body, I learned to make her dance like a marionette.
Brad never knew the difference, being too preoccupied by her body than anything else, so when I changed into her as they were about to have sex, he was clueless. With his eyes closed, laying back on the bed, I entered her body as she was about to go down on him. First, I gave his dick a little lick, just enough to make him feel comfortable, then I suggested, “let’s try something new.”
Smiling with delight as I tied up his arms and legs to the bed, I grabbed one of the peacock feathers from the vase on the dresser, teasing his body to make him squiggle. Next, I lit one of the candles, dripping hot wax onto his nuts, just enough to make him gasp. While my head went down on his cock, my right hand felt between the mattresses on the bed, searching for the double-edged dagger I habitually kept under my head.
My hand grasp the metallic blade, and a smile crossed my face. Even without fangs, when I bit down on his cock, I drew blood, ripping part of it off his body. When he screamed, one hand went up to cover his mouth, while the other stabbed into his chest with the knife, all the while, my teeth were tearing off his nutsack, violently shaking it back and forth.
Hopping on his chest, my warm pussy dripping on his stomach, I laughed, “you should never cheat on your wife, you asshole.” The knife gouged out his eyes, sliced into his collar bone and into his inner thighs. As the blood squirted, I howled and laughed, bathing in it with glee.
I felt her soul try to fight me, but I laughed, keeping it held down. Instead, I took the knife to her throat, slicing it past the esophagus, till her head dangled backwards, connected only by the spinal cord. I’d had enough of her body, so I switched into the vision of my cat, who sauntered up and began licking the blood from their bodies.
After three days, I phoned Brad’s brother David, exclaiming concern that I had not heard from Brad, begging that he go over to the house to make sure everything was okay. He took his time in doing so, resulting in a phone call almost two days later. Through sobbing details, I heard of the trail of bloody cat paw prints that lead to the bedroom, the location of the horrible scene.
Brad tied up with his eyes gouged out, apparently stabbed to death after the mouth of his sadomasochistic lover had ripped his genitalia off of him. Apparently, it was a murder suicide, as she sliced her own throat, found laying naked on top of him. Jealousy and betrayal are horrible things.
I sobbed, hung up the phone and called the newspaper. I couldn’t let this wonderful press opportunity slip out of my hands. Even international publications got involved, as I was, after all, in Paris. I took the first flight I could find across the ocean, doing phone interviews and writing press statements along the way.
“I’m sorry about your loss...” “How tragic...” “Did you ever suspect that he had been cheating?”
“There’s so much violence in the world today…” “What’s your reaction?” “Do you feel betrayed?”
“Do you plan on moving?” “Now that you are heiress…” “What does it feel like to be a widow?”
THE END
What would've happened if you went home with Matthew?
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