Alter Ego

Darkest Little Paradise

Song: Don't Blame Me

Artist, Year: Taylor Swift, 2017

I exhale from the depths of my lungs the mixture of nicotine, sugar, ammonia, and whatever-else-shit that took a loop through my bloodstream. The macabre cloud that leaves my mouth disperses languidly around my face and my dark plum lips pull into a grin. I inch down the driver's side window just the slightest, knowing I need fresh oxygen, but loving the camouflage my vice has blessed me with. Not that I think he'd be able to recognize this vintage phantom black Mustang anyway - it's a rental.

I'm no stranger to heartbreak. Usually, I'm on the breaking end. And I'm certainly no stranger to stakeouts and utilizing deadly force. However, I am a stranger to mixing those separate parts of my being.

When I was made, I believe that the part of me capable of love and the part of me embodying the essence of a black widow spider were walled off, never intended to be combined. Unfortunately, what is intended is not always what happens.

And I'm lucky that not only is this personal vendetta allowed - I'm getting paid top dollar to off that bastard. Yeah, that's right, bastard. He's been dead to me long before I've parked my car out here for the kill. I was just lucky enough to swipe up the perfect chance to exact my revenge.

My perfectly manicured onyx fingernails fiddle with the radio and out of the static emerges a song with progressing gospel chorus. I don't remember if he was religious. He'd utter things about "God" between hasty breaths, but I don't think that counts. I suppose we'll find out shortly.

I take the last few drags of my cigarette, holding my kneecap through the thin fabric of my leggings with my free hand. I know the nerves and muscles of my body are jumpy, just begging to spring to action. There are few rushes in my life like this - and one fewer since he wronged me.

A shadow passes through the flickering streetlight in front of his apartment building and I chuck the butt of my long-gone cigarette out the cracked window. The shadow scurries up the steps and unlocks the moldy green door of the aged brick building, slipping inside.

Showtime.

I smooth out my baggy dark top over the skin-tight utility belt hugging my waist. Checking my dark lips one more time in the mirror, I push open the driver's side door and set each foot down on the pavement, one sharp stiletto after the other.

Not bothering to lengthen or hurry my strides, I belatedly follow the shadow's previous steps to the moldy green door, finding the doorknob twists effortlessly in response to the twist of my wrist. And he still doesn't lock the door. Cute.

Before we even got to this point, I knew what I would do. After the annoying moping stage finally left, I was enlightened by the rage-fueled iterations of demise my dreams cooked up. Forget poison - this isn't a typical woe-is-me woman who wants to sneakily off her man. I believe when he first saw me, his exact words were:

"Damn, girl - you're cutthroat."

I chuckle darkly to myself, steadily ascending the rotting wooden staircase, knowing all the weak steps to avoid by heart. Well, it's a perfect description of me, if you don't say so yourself?

I pause in front of the scratched red door labeled "303". It's cracked open to the darkness, inviting me in. My chest rises and falls as I study the blank space. Even when I was invited here, that door was never open. Oh, shit he-