My Sister, the Serial Killer

“You know, men are very fickle. Give them what they want and they will do anything for you. Keep your hair long and glossy or invest in good weaves; cook for him and send the food to his home and his office. Stroke his ego in front of his friends and treat them well for his sake. Kneel down for his parents and call them on important days. Do these things and he will put a ring on your finger, fast fast.”
My mother nods sagely. “Very good advice.”

He kept it sheathed and locked in a drawer, but he would bring it out whenever we had guests to show it off to. He would hold the nine-inch curved blade between his fingers, drawing the viewer’s attention to the black comma-like markings carved and printed in the pale bone hilt. The presentation usually came with a story

gruesome death of young women. “As an individual I’m attracted to strong female characters – my characters have always been people who own themselves. Even if they’re strongly doing something wrong, they’ve always been powerful people.”

I console myself with the knowledge that even the most beautiful flowers wither and die

An orderly uniform is a reflection of the owner’s respect for his profession

I was just doing my job, but it is gratifying to have my efforts acknowledged.

It’s as futile as using air freshener when you leave the toilet—it just inevitably ends up smelling like perfumed shit.

Now she wears a rose-colored T-shirt and smells of baby powder.

Bleach will disinfect, but it’s not great for cleaning residue, so I use it only after I have first scrubbed the bathroom of all traces of life, and death.

Love is not a weed,

It cannot grow where it please…