Murder She Wrote

It was like an interview with a vampire, she was soulless, cold as night, she wasn't interested in formality, rejected our institutions, shunned the light, so I tread carefully with my inquiries, call it pussy foot you might, but I had bagged a big one and I had to get this right.

I had her in my sights for ages, her sightless, presumed blind,  I planned to write and write for pages, her life was hers to lend to mine. Her life the worst that I could find. My wife of words, her misery, my sublime. I came to transcribe her pain and get paid for every line.

I had baby pouring out her history. Expose the folds of mystery. She was like,  "here, hold this shit for me", so unaffected by her truth. And me,  the bastard that I am, her morose invigorates my plan, and I'm like "skip the details ma'am, I don't need pudding,  just feed me proof".

A ruthless racket, I ,of course, employed by choice, with no remorse, and hearing still no wavered voice I poke this bitch some more. It's only slightly more invested time and she's up to the chore. She'd outlined most her childhood, now let's get to know the whore. her adolescence was a bore. An assault or two, but that's not news, can we please to the core?

"Tell me about your father". I put my pen down for a spell, I wish she had a daddy,  but ain't no coin in wishing well. Her answer was expected. "abused, ignored,  neglected..."pretty soon she'll get the message. I won't convert this era into ink. I want to hear the gritty detail,  but only want the shit that stinks.  

She's almost ready to give me the present, all this embellishment and stretching, graduation. college. wretched woman telling lies. But the truth was in her eyes. When they lit up, aw hell, I'm fucked. I realized the lie. Embarrassed and concerned...I'd eyed her thighs this whole damn time.

I thought I'd use her pain for benefit. She'd feed me words, I'd feed her dick. But she knew the economics. She knew i wasn't shit. She'd lured me with the promise, just so she could tell me this......but she'd invested her voice in deception,  and had no more words to say, but was determined to tell me something. I feared her communique.

She snatched my pen. She grabbed the pad. But it was filled from front to back, she flipped and flipped, like she was mad, I flipped the chick another pad. She scribbled. I waited. Her penmanship was bad. But I could make out,  "murder". She paid me back and that was that.