The Death of My Lover

How I Killed My Lover

10 people had died trying to rescue me. I only ever met one man I'd call truly capable. So I suppose you want to ask me how I killed him. Taehoon was a great man, he was kind, assertive, and spoke softly. His smile was easily contagious, and I often found myself gazing at him long after it had disappeared. He would look at me with a sort of wistfulness in his eyes as if he knew all the dark secrets bubbling beneath the surface of my sexy black girl aesthetic. I relied on him, he worked long hours and I only got to see him once a week. This is the story of how I planned his murder.

Two days before the deed, I knew everything needed to be done. I met up with him at the gas station, fistfuls of snacks spilling out from his outstretched arms. I leaned over to pick some up, smiling at him. He returned the smile, squeezing my cheeks playfully. "Why do you always treat me like a baby?" He asks softly. "Because you're my baby..." I respond with a kiss on his forehead. I was about six inches shorter than he was though, so it was a bit awkward, to say the least. Tears welled up in his eyes as he grinned from ear to ear. "IAMSOHONOREDTOBEYOURSIMP!" He exclaims with smooth passion. So now you see why I have to kill him. We walked back to the car, his porcelain skin glittering under the moonlight. "I am yours." He whispers softly, cheeks blooming a crimson red. He waits for me to say it back, like I always do, and I almost don't, but I don't want him to be suspicious. "You are mine," I reply, tucking a strand of coiled black hair behind his ears. We drive in silence after that, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat under the weight of something heavy. "I know what you're planning." He says suddenly, and I cry out in surprise. How could he have known? What does he know?

He turns to me, slowly. He smiles, then starts laughing. "Why do you want to kill me?" He asks, serious now. "Because I love you too much to risk losing you," I reply, flatly. He nods. "I understand. It would be an honor to die by your hands, my love." No. Nonononono. This can't be happening. He isn't supposed to WANT to die! This is not how I planned it! He was supposed to struggle, to look at me with cold, dying eyes as the light slowly dims from his face. And when he was gone I was to write a beautiful eulogy, dedicating my new book to him in the process.

"Taehoon. You keep fucking up our roleplay." I say, voice laced with sinister intentions. "Babe, you know I can't take your murder fetish seriously, I'm sorry." He keeps his eyes on the road. "But if this is really what you want, I guess I can play along. You do know it's pretty fucked up thought right?' I lean back in the seat, the seat warmers searing my skin. "You know I need this," I say, hurt. He sighs, and I know the conversation has ended.

The day before I killed him, I received the worst news of my life. He was sitting on the sofa, legs close to his chest like he usually does, except he was trembling. "I have to tell you something." and presses his phone against my ear. His mom is on the line. ......and I will never support this marriage of yours to a BLACK girl. You should come home, we have a nice Korean woman here waiting for you. We have bought your plane ticket and the wedding is set for twelve days from now." I fall to my knees helplessly, the world starts spinning. Clear watery streaks ran down my eyes, racing right over the bridge of my nose. As much as I tried to hold it in, the pain came out like an uproar from my throat in the form of a silent scream. The beads of water started falling down one after another, without a sign of stopping. I hit the ground and tried to scream, but my voice was melted by the sound of the place. The muffled sobs wracked against my chest, heavy with despair. His face. His voice. His physique. His shadow. Everything was gone.

The noisy sobs echoed through the empty house, as everything darkened into nothingness as I felt my body pass into the oblivion of unconsciousness.

I opened my eyes, Tae was still on the phone, his chest rising rapidly. He paced the hallway. "I was so worried about your parents that I did not realize it was mine that I should be worried about," he whispers. He can't face me, his body is still. I say he's the ocean, but he's not. He's the storm looming on the horizon, pulling salt from the sea and wrapping the foam

around my shoulders like anxious wings. His smile hides fangs and his fingers disguise

the claws embedded in my skin and you won't see what you don't want to see until it's too late.

The hurt squeezes my ribcage until I am is deaf, and dumb, and delirious. An angry heart never stops beating.

When rage consumes the drum behind his ribs, its purpose becomes the rhythm, the flow of fire-blood beneath raw skin. But when the anger dissolves, dust in the ether, the broken pieces

turn cold, sharp — an icicle in my chest that stabs with each breath. It makes me wonder if it's safest for him to just stay mad, to cling to ire like an anchor. Maybe then I won't drown. He whips me, hard. His rage is directed at his mother's words, but it is I who bears the scars. Each time his palm meets my face I flinch, but I let him. I know he is hurting, I am too. I allow him to hurt. His hands crush into my chest, crushing my lungs and stealing my breath.

She's my lover, I think, but I barely recognize her. When I'm drunk, the fog creeps in, changes the color of the walls, and rearranges my reflection and up becomes sideways, and down becomes inside, I'm inside, I'm outside, where is my lover? The devil has come to take her away! That devil that crawls beneath the door and howls for the blood of women, she comes for my girl, comes to lock her away, the girl is gone! Lost forever, like the bit of rock melting in my pipe. Gone like smoke exhaled. I am angry. Angry at my mother's words, angry at the world for giving me my soulmate then taking it away, letting her slip right between my fingers, like smoke. I love her, so why do I keep hitting her? Why do my palms betray me, striking her on her face over and over again? Five minutes to breathe, four minutes to steady myself, three minutes to close my eyes, two minutes to beg for more time, one minute to scramble–. She doesn't stop me, those grey eyes of hers sear into my mind, gazing at me with murderous intent. Or.....maybe she likes it? I stop, gathering my breath, and shame overwhelms me. She stands to her feet, cradling my bloodied hand in her own. "It's okay. We will get through this together, but you'll have to die first." She wields a thick knife in her left hand, raising it over my head and I watch, horrified, as it descends over my heart.

She pauses inches from my chest, and as I am panicking, I did not register the hand-shaped marks I left on her cheek. She rolls over onto the floor, laughing hysterically as the mental clang of the knife against wood reverberates throughout the room. "This makes me so horny." She says, biting her lip. "It's like all of this adrenaline just brings out a different version of me." I bring her to my feet. "I'm sorry," I say, letting my fingers get lost in her braids. "I want to be with you. But I don't know what to do about my parents." I almost did not notice the knife was not on the floor anymore, and I felt a sharp pain as it plunged into my side. "So you'll have to die then." She whispers, kissing me as my body is drained of blood.