Page 32 of The Night Shift

It truly is the stuff of nightmares. And I can’t fully enjoy it if I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, now, can I?

Don’t get me wrong. There’s a reason I haven’t gotten charged with murder yet. A nice, fun-loving blonde woman — that’s all people see when they look at me. That’s all I let them see. Utterly helpless and so, so harmless. Nothing to worry about. While I make it a point to make most of my killings look like “suicide” or “accidental,” there are times when I give in to my more violent cravings and slit someone’s throat instead of their wrists. But we live in an age of mass murder. AndIlive in New York City. One or two dead bodies spaced apart by a few weeks just doesn’t cut it here. It's not like I do this every second day. Only when someone really fucking pisses me off.

Simply put, people are easy to fool. They tend to believe whatever makes them feel safe and less threatened.

Unfortunately, “people” doesn’t seem to include Theo Carter. God, maybe I should’ve said something. I should’ve denied it or laughed it off or something. What Ishouldn’thave done is volunteer to give him a demonstration. But it’s not my fault! I’m not used to feeling exposed and vulnerable around men.

Just anger.

I’m not a “man-hater” per se (that’s a lie), even though women have every right to hate men. Most men, I think, aren't deliberately ill-minded and malicious by nature. But society letsthem learn they can get away with a lot of stuff. It's easy for them to be crappy to other people. There's a spectrum, of course. Unintentional harm blends into wilful ignorance, which blends into weaponized indifference. Bad men benefit from bad men and so do the good ones.

I’m not a “man-hater” (sure), but I wouldn’t blame women for never wanting to interact with any man because of the fact that the majority of them are trash. Like, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Imagine living in a world where all of the power is decided by men. All of it. Fucking all of it. A woman can get killed just for saying “no” to a man, for defending themselves and their families from the abuse of men, for merely fucking existing.

They feel entitled to land, promotions, women’s bodies, and more because they are taught from a young age that the world is theirs. They think “no” means “yes” and “get lost” means “I’m all yours.” They mistake kindness for weakness, respect for submission. Even men who identify or present as feminine still receive many of the benefits of manhood, even while simultaneously under the threat of violence for bending gender norms. Patriarchy means that men have male privilege. The same male privilege that gives them the false idea that they are somehow “better” than women. The same male privilege that perpetuates rape culture on college campuses.

I take a few deep breaths in an effort to contain my rage.

They destroy everything they touch. On the surface, they pretend to be harmless, but in reality, they’re nothing but soulless bastards who drive you insane and then have the audacity to act surprised when you stab them in the throat.

So, I play their game. I smile, bat my eyelashes, let them think I'm putty in their hands. I flirt, I laugh, I kill. It's my own twisted form of justice, a dance on the edge of their expectations, pirouetting on the precipice of their disappointment. Does that make me a bitch? Maybe. Does it make me cold and frigid? Awoman made of ice? Sure, why not. But ice is strong. Unyielding. It’s a mirror reflecting their own distorted self-image.

“Holly?”

I look up to find Cami staring at me.

“Yeah?”

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

Her eyebrows furrow. She always knows when I’m lying. “You’re making that face again.”

“What face?”

“The I-need-to-stab-something face. You’re worried about the texts, aren’t you?”

“Obviously.”

“Have you tried texting back?” she asks.

“Aren’t you supposed tonotrespond to anonymous messages?” At least that’s what it says online. “I don’t want to encourage this person.”

She presses her lips together and nods.

“What?”

She looks down, shaking her head. “Nothing.”

“Cami.”

She looks back up. “You’re scared of this person.”

A statement, not a question. I scoff. “Absolutely not.”

Cami just stares at me.

“I’m not scared of this person,” I insist. “I just don’t see the upside in texting them back. You’re probably right. If they wanted me behind bars, then I would be there already. But I’m not. Which means it’s probably just some fucked-up prank.”