MicroHorror

Jane was my first love.

When I first saw her across the crowded bar, I knew she was the one. Then I remembered that pretty girls like her never talk to guys like me. Then again, no one ever talks to me. I sighed, sipped the last of my warm beer and trudged home.

She was there again the next Friday and the Friday after that. Finally, after weeks of heated self-debate, I summoned enough courage to make my way across the room to talk to the statuesque goddess leaning against the wall near the bathrooms.

My mouth opened, but words spewed awkwardly from my lips. I shook my head and tried to start over, but fell mute as I became lost in her warm brown eyes.

She smiled politely and said, “Relax, you don’t have to try so hard; I’m sure you’re a nice guy.” She then put her hand on my arm to reassure me. It felt so right. I fell for her there and then.

Everything happened fast, but before complacency settled into our relationship, it was over. I still don’t understand how it fell apart so quickly.

I pleaded for another chance. “Please don’t go. You are my destiny,” I said through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry, Johnny, but it just didn’t work out. You’ll get over this and move on,” she replied as she ran from my apartment.

Yes, it ended badly, but I would do anything for a second chance. I’d tell her I’m sorry for the pain and suffering I put her through. I’d hold her tight and try to explain why I had to act as I did. Hell, I’d even recite one of Shakespeare’s love sonnets if it helped her understand my longing.

Then, after the histrionics stopped, I would kill her again. Brutally. While there’s nothing quite like your first love, nothing beats the thrill of your first kill.

It’s funny, but something dawned on me as I stood over the blood-covered body of Jane Doe III and watched it writhe in pain and labor to breathe. I realized that Jane, or whatever her name really was, was right about one thing: I have moved on.