Sunrise over the panoramic ocean view, cigarette ash fluttering down the curlicue railing. High-rise buildings blazed with reflective dawn light, my legs were up and resting over the muffled sound of traffic far below. I took another drag from the cigarette, the same way I always do: Spitefully. I was a big ball of messy rage. Chaotic and hateful. My therapist tried diagnosing me with a personality disorder – stupid bitch, I wished she'd die soon.

She was probably right. Bipolar or histrionic disorder, maybe both.

My eyes narrowed as I exhaled smoke, coughing a little. I thought again about murder, about murdering him specifically. I knew I could do it. I was obsessed with crime mysteries and crime fiction. I only watched detective shows and only read thrillers. First, I'd get him to come over to my place for sex, and I'd have everything set up beforehand. Telling him not to touch me until we were alone would be easy, I'd keep him at a distance even when we entered my bedroom. He'd see the stuff and be confused, but not scared. I'd chat to him calmly with a smile on my face as I set out the bags and pulled on the gloves. He'd ask me what I was doing, he'd be a little weirded out, and I'd keep smiling and say I wanted to show him something. I'd get him to stand still, walk up to him smiling and put my gloved hands on his shoulders and ask if he's ready.

"Yes," he'd answer uncertainly.

Then I'd throw his head back against the wardrobe violently, wrap my hands around his neck and press my thumbs deep into his windpipe. Both of us sliding lower on the floor as he struggled, dazed from the head bashing. Thinking about that part, staring into his eyes as I strangled him with barred fangs, was getting me hard.

Afterwards I'd clean under his fingernails with a KFC wipe, just in case any of my skin gets under there after our struggle. Then, bundle his body in a sheet I bought, probably a few towns over. Or use bags, maybe both. Then dump him under one of the houses on the way to school. That'd be the hardest part, probably. Apart from making sure I'm not seen with a body bag. Crawling and dragging him through that narrow space. The dirt and junk and rusted metal cutting into me, the maybe-venomous spiders living under there. Funnel webs and red backs. I'd do it anyway. Then dust my hands off afterwards, thoroughly clean the apartment and myself, and forget him.

Probably not forget him. He was the love of my life after all.

My eyes blazed as I took another contemplative drag. Morning air breezing at the high altitude of my balcony on the apartment complex. I felt awful. This was my nadir, my lowest point. And yet there was a great sense of freedom and almost, almost a release. The new identity I'd chosen, embittered and with nothing to lose, of the vengeful lover.