The night is cold and sharp — the wind is heavy, as if the world itself is reacting to me. Maybe it is. I am the storm; I am the devil of nature — for people too.
"Who are you… please, leave me," the man begs, voice ragged.
"Leave me." "Leave…" He shouts like a dying animal, tied to a chair, his eyes blindfolded, hands and feet bound. He can't escape tonight. Either I kill him, or he blames himself and finally changes. I know what I am doing. Right now I look like my father, torturing people. I don't care what anyone — or my bodyguards — thinks. I only care about this moment; whether it's good or evil is irrelevant.
"Shhhhh," I say. "Begging does nothing here".
I stand and walk toward him. I take his chin in my hand and lift his head so he can hear me even if he can't see me. "You have a good face. But why not a good heart, Mr. Kimmy?" I smirk. "Looks can judge people, not the character, right! ".
He smirks back, stupid and defiant. "A girl, a woman… doing all this. What, you want sex? You love me? you obsessed with me " His voice slithers: "I can give you anything. I'll listen. I'll do anything."
I laugh. "Really? Okay, then listen. I want—" I pause, savoring it. "—I want your death. I'm a girl right; what even can I expect from a useless person like you?"
His face changes. Fear slips in. "What… what happened?, you look surprised!, does it look like a different wish" "You'll do anything to me, right?"
It's a game to me. When I see him like this, my father's voice comes back, the one that begging me to stop him, to leave him to all this to save my mother. The memory twists into a ruthless amusement: the same helplessness, different players.
"You have a good opinion of women, right?" I say. "But I'm not your wife to endure the pain you gave her. If I had been in her place, I would have poisoned your food long ago. I don't believe in your love."
I throw his chin aside and wipe my hands with a tissue my bodyguard handed me. I am not scared by what I do — I enjoy it. I have power and money; why should I care?
"My wife sent people to threaten me," he stammers.
I smile and turn away. "Definitely not. She told me to kill you. To burn you." I know how monstrous this sounds. Her "wife" — the woman he hurt — was actually my professor. She was abused and humiliated by her husband. It isn't that I'm doing a service for her; I'm doing what I want. I've done many things like this before; I've never actually killed anyone. But sometimes I want to. I am not Lucky like my father — who could take a life without a second thought.
I pick up the long bat and start hitting him, the way he hit his wife every day. I want him to feel what she felt — each drop of blood, each sting. I am not a god who punishes; I can't wait for a divine reckoning. I will make sure he knows pain now.
"Does it hurt?" I ask.
He bleeds and pleads. "Please, please — I was wrong. I'll change. Give me a chance."
I stop. His words snag me: one chance, one change. I smirk — not out of pity but because it's deliciously human to beg. Maybe he's lying to save himself; maybe he means it. People do change sometimes. We are all human; we all make mistakes, but I can't decide myself on my own-- it is not like I'm a emotional fool but I don't know what is wrong with me, why I stuck here everytime for this words.
I throw the bat away and step back, fighting the pull to finish him. That is where I get stuck: not in the killing, but in letting go. I hand the final decision to my bodyguards, then leave the room burning with anger, stress, and frustration. I don't care whether they kill him or leave him — I want out.
Inside my car, exhausted, my phone buzzes. A live notification from Fantagio — a K-pop company. I smile without realizing it; all my fury lifts the moment I see him. He is smiling in his stream, lovely and bright, and something soft clicks in me.
"Hi everyone, I hope you're all well. I'm doing great — thank you so much to all my fans for loving and supporting me." His voice melts me. when he said fans...., well do I look like one of his fan hmmm-- obsessed and eagerly waiting for his lives, songs, albums, pictures. I rolled my eyes towards my other hand which I was holding a tablet of him doing his live in his house, He lies on a queen-size bed with a blanket half covering him, one hand holding the camera, the other raking through his hair. my heart speeds up watching him off-screen — more than alive and private than any staged performance.
He has a pet that clamors for attention; I hate the pet for stealing his kisses and hugs. If I were truly ruthless, I'd send that animal to hell for the way it acts. But I don't. I watch, obsessed, and for a few short minutes the world makes sense.
He is my life, my full, my fill.... I'm crazy about him, I love him like hell, fuck why him-- he changed me even he don't know that I exist and obsessed by him. there are like many times I got many number of dreams about we're having sex in your bed without that stupid animal of yours.
But I'm not giving up on you for sure-- you are mine, mine forever and ever....