Insecure women turn me on. That flicker of fear in their eyes as you land a perfectly timed backhanded compliment.
“You have lovely curves. It’s great to see a woman who enjoys her food. Everyone’s too obsessed about being skinny.”
She freezes as the comment punches her in the gut, then she carries on stirring the pasta.
I smile, satisfied.
Found this one in a bar sitting by herself. Fidgeting with a top too low for her confidence. It was the smell that attracted me. The perfect combination of cheap perfume and perspiring desperation.
When I approached, her eyes lit up. All those Disney movies were about to come true. Prince Charming does exist and he’s going to save her from her crappy nine-to-five, Netflix-on-a-Friday-night excuse of an existence.
Thank you, Walt, for what you’ve done for women. Keeps my dick wet.
As she serves the carbonara, I look around her kitchen. No pictures, ornaments, or decorations. No sense of any identity. Perfect. Women who don’t know themselves are so much easier to mould.
She places the meal in front of me, her eyes searching my face, desperate for approval. I stare back blankly.
This one definitely has daddy issues. You can always tell. Bet her father spends his time working, drinking, or banging the same fifty-an-hour hooker who had his virginity. Too busy to say ‘I love you.’
She lights a wonky candle and take a seat at the kitchen table. I stare at her, unblinking. She lowers her head. Women like her believe feeling uncomfortable is feeling in love.
“Do you like the pasta?” she mutters, swivelling only a small portion onto her fork. I shovel a massive pile into my mouth.
“It’s good. Not usually a fan of salty food but it works.”
Grabbing the wine bottle, I pour myself another glass. She stares at me as I slug it down, clearly desperate for a drink but too terrified of the extra calories. It’s good to see my words have already started to take root.
“When I first saw you,” she murmurs, still too nervous to look me in the eyes, “I knew you were special. You looked like someone from the movies. A real Prince Charming.”
I smile approvingly. Compliments are a behaviour I want to encourage.
She continues. “But I also knew you weren’t perfect, even though you looked it. No man is. Prince Charmings aren’t born. They are created.”
Suddenly, my eyesight stars to blur. The fork falls from my fingers. I try to pick it up but my hand seems to be disconnected from my brain.
“Don’t worry. It’s just the Rohypnol. You’re going to feel very drunk very quickly, and then you’re going to fall into a deep sleep.”
I jump up from my chair, but my knees buckle, causing me to hit the floor. Panicking, I try to crawl away but my arms are struggling to move. Darkness seeps through the veins in my eyes. The last thing I see is her smiling down at me.
When I wake up, it takes a couple of seconds to register the severed limbs. They dangle from hooks above me. Terrified, I try to move but my hands and legs are shackled to a table, my torso strapped down.
Then I see it. The headless monstrosity of sewn-up limbs hanging beside me. Each section of skin a different shade of decay as the flies dance around its neck.
“Beautiful, isn’t he.” She stands in the doorway, now confident and proud. “I made him myself, from men just like you. All imperfect. All in need of a woman’s touch.”
As she steps closer, my eyes notice her fingers caressing a hacksaw. I try to scream, but the gag in my mouth muffles the cries.
“The reality is, true love involves change. Elizabeth changed Darcy. Bella changed Edward. Beauty changed the Beast. A woman has to make her Prince, and we don’t have a lot to work with.”
Her finger runs up my torso. I try to escape its touch, but I’m strapped down too tight. Then she places the hacksaw on my neck, its rigid blade grazing my throat. Her eyes sparkle, like a fairy-tale princess about to receive true love’s first kiss.
“You have such a charming head.”
