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THE MURDER

How do you kill a narcissist?

I mean, how do you attract one in the first place? Do you put off some sort of pheromone that says, Hey, sexy lady, I’m easily manipulated, come check out my wares?

I attract them. They find me. They seek me out—for whatever perceived vulnerability I give off, the pathos, the acceptance. They see me as a tool to their ascent, a shoulder to be stepped upon, a foil, a testing ground.

If I, sweet, biddable I, can be fooled into loving them, the whole world will, too.

Only I am not sweet. I am not biddable. I may send signals that I want to belong, that I want to be loved, but this is a false trail. I have been humoring you. I am curious to see what your plan is, what you intend to do. How you think you will rule over me.

I will extricate myself from your grip and wave you away. You, the one who thinks the world owes you, may think you’ve made this choice.

But I am the spider. I am waiting at the center of the web for the blundering fly.

I am the real monster.

When faced with killing a narcissist, I find it easier than I always thought it would be. There is nothing I can do but give in to the urge to punish the wrongdoer. To unmask the manipulator. To show the world who you really are.

Thank you for wearing my scarf. You look so pretty in red.

Let’s start with your eyes.

Oh, don’t whimper. This won’t hurt a bit.