Imagine being a serial killer and your lover, James, always being curious about who’s blood you’ve mostly recently spilled.
You sighed in content as you washed your hands in the bathroom of your hotel room. The red water slunk down the drain and into the pipes as you turned off the tap, drying your hands on the ‘JPM’ monogrammed towels. You looked in the mirror, adjusting your outfit and fixing your hair. You smiled, excited for dinner with your husband tonight. You walked out of the bathroom and rounded the corner to where the table was. James grinned when he saw you. “Dearest, please, sit down. We have much to discuss I presume?” He walked close to you and gently grabbed your chin, placing a single kiss on your cheek.
“You presume correctly James.” You blushed ever so faintly when his lips hit your skin.
He pulled out your chair and you sat down before he returned to his place across the table. He straightened his suit coat and folded his hands on the table. “How is the outside world, darling? Tell me about one of your recent kills.” His dark brown eyes glistened with curiosity.
You set one hand in your lap while sipping your wine with the other. “Well, today I killed a man by the name of Corey Havaford.” You said plainly. “He was a wife beater, awful man in general actually.” You set down your glass. “I took him to my shed and slit his throat, a method I thought today approve of.”
James’s smile only grew with each word you spoke. “That sounds exhilarating. A classic slicing of the neck is always appreciated by me, my dear. So glad to hear you enjoyed yourself, and that this world is rid of an animalistic excuse for a man.” He raised his glass to you before taking a sip.
My Type is Homicidal 