The familiar red lipstick print marked the edge of my glass. This bar was filthy and dimly lit; and not in a nice way. I felt a pair of eyes outline the spaghetti straps on my dress and my lips forced out a smile. He made his way over, so I made pleasurable conversation:

“Can I get you a drink, sweetheart?”

“Only if you’re paying.”

Many glasses later, he was desperately fumbling with my dress in some dark off-road behind the bar. I pressed my lips against his as he melted into the warmth we shared. Maintaining contact between us, I reached up to my garter belt, parted our lips slightly and pulled out my knife. His pupils dilated. He reeled back in shock, pressing his hand to the gaping wound in his stomach that was seeping a dark red liquid. A choking noise left his lips as he tried to run before crumpling to the floor. It was such a miserable sight. I fished out my phone to inform my contractor; he was no more.

And now I shall move on to my next target. I don’t do this for a thrill, nor my own goal. I do this for money. This is my nine to five, my very own dead end office job. This is the profession I will work until death do us part. I am good at this, and so this is what I shall do. I am no feminist icon, nor a personality to be strewn upon an operating table and torn apart in a desperate search for meaning. No, I’m not a complex character. I am just a writing of fiction. Print on paper, ink on parchment. And if you’re reading this: I am absolutely, definitely not real. So don’t even try to find me.