Beneath Her Smile

"An ordinary face. An unforgiving predator."

by: A.C. Huff Genre: Psychological Thriller ~5,963 words

The air settled dense and immovable, crushing her ribs like poured concrete. Nick was on his second slice, his laugh ricocheting through the room, an echo of applause at the wrong curtain call. His hand reached for the wine bottle, pouring without thought.

The sweetness of pineapple clung to her fingertips—sticky and invasive, rooting her to this moment. She held it in her pores, a quiet acid eating at her resolve. The knife rested on the cutting board, blade winking like a silent accusation. Clean. Sharp. Mocking in its unearned innocence.

Her fingers gripped the handle, learning its weight, the steadiness it demanded. She’d accepted long ago her hands could be deliberate, unflinching when required. Not all suffering needed to endure. Sometimes the surest hands offered the kindest release.

Nick’s voice surged, words spilling too fast to stick. His laughter wormed its way under her skin. Her vision narrowed, tunneling in on his mouth—how it twisted, how grease and sauce flecked his stubble. His laugh sharpened, the edge unmistakable. A challenge. A dare.

“Makena? You with me, or are you already checked out?”

The tone struck as ice and wind. Not his but familiar. The cadence of ghosts—men who spoke in clipped demands, their masks dropping when no one watched. Her chest constricted, breath catching deep. This wasn’t rage—rage burned molten, cleansing. This was frostbite, precise and numbing. Her fingers curled on the knife handle, itching with purpose.

His hand closed around her wrist.

“Hey—what’re you doing?” His grip was firm, not rough, but the weight burned. The familiarity pulled at memory and fear, a shadow buried but waiting. Her body moved as her mind caught up. A twist. A yank. She was free.

The cut was almost an accident. The blade slipped into his forearm, a clean arc of red splashing the counter. He staggered, knocking the table backward as he clutched the wound. His eyes widened, the fear not registering, only confusion.

“What the—Makena, are you crazy?”

Crazy. The word ignited, spreading flames through brittle branches and parched leaves.

He lunged—not with force, not intent. Reflex. A body trying to defy danger. She sidestepped, fluid and instinctive, her grip tightening on the knife.

When she moved, it was no accident—the blade struck his chest. The resistance surprised her—firm, almost rubbery, like slicing unripe melon. He fell with a choked cry, writhing and thrashing as blood bloomed across his shirt.

His glassy eyes locked onto hers, a half-formed plea dying in his throat. The television droned, a laugh track filling the room.

Makena stood motionless, the knife burning in her grip, blood veining through the grout. Her heartbeat thundered, a cavernous drumbeat echoing through her chest. She stared at the blade, its surface slick and red, pieces of Nick still clinging to the edge. She set it back on the counter with a final clang.

Her sticky hands left blood-bright splotches on the dish towel. Her chest rose quick and tight, her mind electric. For the first time in years, she felt light—unburdened.

The pizza sat untouched, its grease pooling under the soft yellow of the kitchen lights. A pathetic reminder of what the evening might have been. She let herself smile, small but real, the corners of her mouth lifting with quiet satisfaction.

The night wasn’t over.

—

She surveyed the cleaned house—as normal as it could be with Nick sprawled like crumpled laundry across the kitchen floor. No visible blood. No stray hairs. Every surface scrubbed spotless, every corner inspected.

The carnival whirl collapsed into silence. She stilled in the doorway, grave-calm pressing against her back, sludgy and unmoving. She stepped over the threshold, into air almost clean.

Chill rushed in, spiteful and cold, scraping her lungs raw. Her breath fogged in soft clouds that dissolved before they lingered. She moved forward, chest bound by invisible chains, each step shifting the weight until relief glimmered at the edge of her resolve.

A bus pulled up with a groan of brakes, exhaust clouding the dark. The doors yawned open. She climbed aboard without looking at the driver, her fingers brushing the scanner as a faint apology. The back row called to her—a seat where she could watch unseen.

Outside, the city smudged into streaks of neon and shadow. Her reflection ghosted on the window—a stranger’s face staring through smears of grime. The adrenaline was gone, her second skin stripped away. She hated this hollow stretching and clawing, this quiet unraveling as normalcy found her again. A captain drifting toward a flat horizon.

The bus jerked to a halt. She caught herself on the seat ahead, fingers digging into plastic. A man in a hoodie startled awake, then slipped back into sleep. When her stop was called, she rose and moved to the aisle with eyes unfocused and vacant.

She stepped off the bus into a burst of noise—blaring horns, distant sirens, the bass thud of a passing truck. The sounds swirled around her until her apartment building swallowed them whole.

Home embraced her in its familiar haze of comfort and clutter. Cat litter and abandoned takeout hugged the air—neither inviting nor repelling. Entirely hers. The fridge rattled and wood creaked, a muted harmony of life. Her shoes fell by the door, one toe-up, the other toppled.

Soft cushions welcomed her like an old friend, molding to her shape. The remote emerged from its hiding spot, dutiful and eager. She navigated the TV menus with purpose, muscle memory guiding her fingers. Bewitched. Dick York episodes only—the other guy was an imposter, his face a lie wrapped in familiarity.

Bright notes pierced the evening shadows as the theme song began. Nox jumped onto her lap, curling into itself, its purr a gentle vibration against her hand.

Samantha twitched her nose, and Darrin frowned in rhythm and time, keeper of his wife’s magic. The episode unfolded in its familiar pattern while Makena sank into the cushions as night pressed deeper.

The crash continued in slow, wavelike echoes, fleshy and inescapable. She let it take her. Tomorrow would demand its routines, but tonight was only the gleam of the TV, the warmth of the cat, and quiet stretching too long.

*************************************************************************************

The car slashed through the street, a glowing shard of steel trailing only wind and indifference. The impact rang out as a wrong note struck hard—a wet, heavy thud that smothered the air. Asphalt drank in the mess of fur and blood, a smear where a shape used to be.

Eight-year-old Makena stopped mid-skip, one sandaled foot suspended, her dress caught in the breeze before falling limp. Dad froze beside her, his expression hardening, sending a twist through her stomach.

Mom didn’t. She sipped from her plastic cup, her free hand already digging into her jacket for a cigarette.

“Keep walking,” she said without looking back, her voice the same as if they’d passed a fallen leaf. “It’s just a squirrel.”

Makena’s gaze stuck to the road. The twitching form vibrated with the leftover energy of life, a broken signal struggling to communicate. The black eyes glinted, frantic and glassy, catching everything but seeing nothing.

“Makena.” Dad’s voice stirred the air, a ribbon of sound. “Come on.”

Her feet stayed planted. “Can we help it?” she whispered, not knowing what help meant.

Mom’s sandals slapped the pavement in a steady, rigid rhythm. “No,” she called over her shoulder, reaching the corner. “Let nature take care of it.” A lighter clicked twice, a flash of flame. “It’s what happens.”

Dad knelt down beside Makena, his shadow gathering the asphalt. His face was closer now. Her nails bit her arm, her jaw locking—the intensity in his eyes made her chest tighten.

“Sometimes,” he said, each word deliberate and slow, “things don’t just die. They suffer. And that’s worse.”

Her throat shut, her voice thin and trapped. “What do we do?”

He flicked open a folding knife, its blade catching the dying sunlight in a sharp spark. His other hand closed around a jagged rock, heavy and cold from the gravel along the sidewalk.

“You pick,” he said, as if he were offering her candy. “Rock or blade.”

The world constricted and expanded around her skin. Her body trembled on frozen legs, her finger pointing toward the blade.

“Good choice,” Dad said, like it mattered. Like anything mattered.

They crossed the asphalt in silence. The squirrel’s labored breaths broke through the stillness, its body twitching weakly as they drew near.

Dad knelt beside the small body, the knife sparkling between his fingers. He placed it in her hand, his own hands large and steady over hers.

“Hold it firm,” he said. “It’ll be quick. Just press.”

The blade’s cold weight felt wrong against her palm, like an unwanted inheritance. His hands guided hers, firm and unrelenting, until the blade found the soft hollow of the neck.

The fur gave way, the skin split and warmth spilled over her fingers, wet, and slick. The squirrel jerked once and went still.

Makena’s held breath shattered. The knife slipped from her failing fingers, metal striking asphalt.

“Good job,” Dad murmured. The words sat heavy, their meaning unclear.

Mom was leaning against the streetlight when they reached the corner, her cigarette a faint beacon in the softening light. Her eyes flicked down to Makena’s dress, to the crimson splash smeared across the fabric.

“For Christ’s sake,” she muttered, dragging deep on the cigarette. “You ruined your fucking dress. Over a stupid squirrel?”

Makena didn’t answer. Her fingers still tingled, phantom warmth lingering where blood had been.

“Let’s go,” Dad said, his voice flat, his hand steady on her shoulder.

They walked home in silence. The road stretched long and empty, their footsteps echoing off unsaid words. Behind her eyes, Makena pictured only the blade, felt only the weight of his hands, and the being that bled out between them.

*************************************************************************************

The days after Nick’s death unraveled cleanly. Each morning, Makena slipped into her routines—not out of need, but momentum. Coffee brewed. Cats fed. Dishes scrubbed. The motions steadied her, but the balance was tension and collapse. Life stretched thin, unfamiliar—its trajectory altered in a single, deliberate night.

The power of it lingered—raw, electric—but so did the unease, like standing at the precipice of a vast and unknowable void. It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t fear. It was the quiet weight of the unknown—stillness and pressure—bearing down against her chest.

Nights unraveled her. Sleep staggered in, fractured by phantom laughter—jagged, misplaced—and shadows of things best left buried. Silence pressed close, stealing her dream-focus.

By day six, the hum beneath her skin surged—a live-wire current, relentless and searing. The world jarred her senses. Colors were too vivid. Voices too harsh. Spaces too full. It wasn’t the violence; she lied.

It was the control. The crystalline moment when chaos stilled, bowing to her will.

She didn’t need the kill. That wasn’t it.

But need was irrelevant. Desire thrived on discipline, growing feral when unfed. The razor settled deep—sharpened and waiting. Ready.

—

Makena carved through the market. Movements clipped and deliberate, each step tuned to a predator’s rhythm disguised as casual strides.

Her cart bore a sparse confession: pasta, olive oil, bread untouched by appetite. She paused in the aisle, fingers tracing the cellophane-wrapped crusts as her gaze flicked to the edges of the store. No one looked at her.

A guy shuffled past, his sneakers dragging, eyes pinned to the floor. Too green, she thought. Shoulders upright, face unmarked by the drag of years. Someone who still mistook the ground beneath him for solid. Useless.

The deli counter held better prey. A man in his forties, spine curling forward under invisible weight. He plucked a pre-packaged salad from the shelf, his jaw tightening over the price. Bare ring finger, but too slow, too small. The kind who drowned before the storm hit. Not worth it.

She prowled, her hand ghosting over rows of peanut butter jars, their labels crisp and bright in the sterile light. Her fingers brushed one, more habit than hunger. And he was there.

Early thirties, broad shoulders sagging beneath an unseen stormcloud. His face, shadowed by uneven stubble, looked incomplete, as if he’d stopped assembling himself halfway through. His cart—a mess of contradictions: frozen pizza, six-packs, cereal—spoke of someone untethered and fumbling for a rhythm. Alone, perhaps newly and unwillingly.

Makena drifted closer, her cart gliding over the tiles. She picked up a jar of jam, turning it in her hands, her focus fixed on him. He didn’t notice—his mind drowning in the static between decisions.

She broke the silence. “Too many options, huh?”

He startled, a small flinch traveling from his shoulders to his eyes—brown, rimmed with exhaustion, bruised by sleepless nights. He smiled, polite but distant. “Yeah. Kinda ridiculous.”

Her laugh was soft, an empty trap to draw him near. “I swear, no matter what I pick, it’s never as good as I hope. Guess I’m a slow learner.”

He chuckled, the sound low and awkward. “Story of my life.”

Her eyes tracked his cart, a playful smile warming her lips. “Stocking up for a kindergarten frat party?”

“Something like that,” he shot back, a dry edge in his voice. “Gotta keep the critics happy, right?”

She tilted her head, amusement coloring her words. “The toughest critic, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah. My little shadow judge. Seven years old. Mac and cheese fanatic.” His mouth softened. “That’s about the peak of my cooking expertise.”

Her laugh came easier now, as practiced as a hand reaching into a glove. “Hard to go wrong with the classics.”

“True.” The beginnings of a smile broke through. “I’m Jackson by the way.”

“Makena.” She dropped her name with the precision of a hook, light and inviting.

Their exchange drifted into shallow waters—comments, laughs, slight gestures mirroring his hesitations. When he glanced at his watch, her voice nudged him along. “Keeping you?”

“No, just—” He faltered and fumbled. “It was nice talking to you.”

“You too.” Her smile lingered, soft enough to stay in his mind, cold enough to leave him leaning forward. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah.” He paused, the air stretching between them. “Hey, if you’d ever want to grab coffee…”

She let the silence settle and pulled her phone. “I’d like that.”

The exchange was effortless, the numbers stored, the connection baited. As he rounded the endcap, his steps lightened, his mind already unspooling the threads of their conversation, searching for substance where there was none.

—

The parking lot was hangnails and heartbeats, the air running on distant vibrations: the squeal of a cart over broken asphalt, muffled laughter, the shrill cry of a child slicing the dark. Makena leaned against a car that wasn’t hers, her shadow stretching, reflecting.

Keys jingled, a rhythm distinct in its approach. Footsteps followed, measured and unaware. She didn’t need to look. She knew it was him.

He passed her, phone buzzing in his grasp. She moved with purpose, closing the space between them. Her hand gripped the hilt hidden in her jacket, the blade true and ready.

The steel found its mark below his ribs, sliding through skin and sinew. His breath stuttered—a sharp, sucking sound—his weight falling against her. For a moment, they could have been mistaken for lovers entwined in an embrace. Blood seeped and surged beneath her palms, soaking his shirt.

His eyes locked on hers, wide with disbelief, searching for answers she wouldn’t give. She guided him down as he crumpled, deliberate and gentle. The pavement accepted his weight with a dull clap. She dragged the blade across his jacket. The parking lot inhaled the scene, its shadows embracing the still form at her feet.

*************************************************************************************

The bottle tipped and teetered at the lip of her mother’s glass, a precarious pendulum. Makena sat cross-legged on the worn carpet as the television pressed against the angles of the room. Laughter drifted up, tinny and faint. Her mother leaned back, legs stretched out, the wine sloshing its warning.

“You think it’s about control,” her mom said, pointing with the glass but not looking, her gaze fixed high and distant. “Life, I mean. All these neat little boxes you want to pack it into—cute labels, tidy shelves. But you don’t get it yet. It doesn’t work that way.”

Makena traced the fraying fibers of the rug with her fingers, silent. She knew the rules by now: let it come, let it rise, let it spend itself as waves against the rocks.

“Your dad,” her mother said, half-laughing, the sound a sharp snap in the quiet. “He thought he could steer. Captain of his own ship. What a fucking joke.” She took a long drink, her head tipping back like a mast cracking under God’s fury. “The storm doesn’t give a damn about the captain Makena.”

“What storm?” The words left Makena’s mouth, soft and unsteady, a question she wasn’t sure she wanted answered.

Her mother’s head snapped forward, eyes burning like frozen needles. Raw pain sliced the air between them. Makena’s breath caught, trapped in her throat.

“The storm is everything,” she said, her black hole words bending the walls inward. “It’s the people who break you. The people you break. The choices you think are yours but aren’t. It’s just—” she flicked her hand, wine spilling across the rug, dark and crawling, “—the wind. You don’t steer it, baby. No one does. You fight it, or you ride it, but you’re always moving where it blows.”

Makena frowned, her twelve-year-old mind reaching the edges of a story too wild to grasp. “If we can’t steer, what’s the point?”

Her mother’s laugh was softer this time, a sigh shaped like love. She leaned forward, brushed a strand of hair from Makena’s face. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, her breath warm and bitter with wine. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? Maybe the point’s to survive the storm. Or maybe…” Her voice faltered, her eyes drifting to the spreading stain on the carpet. “Maybe the point’s to become it.”

The silence was syrup-thick, clinging to the corners and coating the air. The television rambled in the background, its laugh track rising and falling. The wind pressed and pounded the windows, rattling the glass with urgency and intent.

“Someday,” her mom said, her voice drifting like moonlit dreams. “You’ll figure it out. What to do with all this chaos? But just remember—it’s not about good or bad. It’s about knowing where the wind’s blowing. And learning to make it blow for you.”

The words pierced her like hooks, dragging something hidden to the surface. Something restless and electric, dizzying with confused wonder.

Her mom drifted off, head slumped against the couch as the empty glass tilted precariously in her lap. Makena stayed still, listening to the wind outside carrying fortunes she could finally hear.

She didn’t want to survive the storm.

She wanted to be it.

*************************************************************************************

The cursor blinked—a slow, pulsing dare against the void. Makena’s fingers shadow-flexed into the plunge: dictated sounds filtering through her headphones. The doctor’s voice came detached, clinical, sharp-edged, deliberate. She clung to the sterile cadence, hunting for neutrality, but the words unraveled, burrowing under her skin. A sound she couldn’t untangle.

Her jaw locked. She typed anyway. Patient exhibits signs of—Letters twisted as her hands faltered, fragments collapsing on the screen. Errors multiplied and sentences unraveled, her trembling resolve and focus crumbling together. She stabbed at the backspace key, the rhythm of her frustration carving crescents into her palms.

Focus. She clawed for it. A clean edge. A usable spark.

But the harder she pushed, the louder it echoed: the parking lot, the stillness—not silence, but a suffocating, viscous putty. Her pulse thrummed in her ears as her chest knotted, the screen blurring into a smear of light. The laptop snapped shut with jarring finality.

The walls rippled, shadows bending to her restlessness.

She surged up, skin alive with an electric need for motion. Her bare feet found rough floorboards as she traced restless paths through the apartment, hunting friction, seeking ground. The fridge’s hum greeted her desperate pull, cold light flooding the kitchen. Empty. Nothing to still the churning. Nothing to break the need.

And there it was—the constriction tightening like a snake’s coil, squeezing breath into memories she couldn’t outrun. Five days. Too long.

The beast beneath her ribs swelled—sharp, primal, insistent. She snatched her jacket from the chair, compelled by need. Outside. She needed to be outside.

The night air bit sharp and clean. Her boots struck pavement in staccato rhythm, each step narrowing her world to their beat and her thundering pulse. She didn’t know her destination—she’d know when she found it. Faces blurred past in amber light, hurried and haunted. None were right.

The library loomed ahead, light spilling across the ground like fallen halos. She slowed, breath steadying as her thoughts aligned. Libraries held a sadness no bar could match, a sadness ordered and hushed. The men who lingered there—lonely, restless, unmoored—were perfectly broken moths circling a bare bulb.

Makena drifted between the shelves, fingers brushing book spines whispering stories she didn’t care to know. Her eyes scanned past them, cataloging movements, sifting through the murk of tired faces. She wasn’t reading. She was waiting. Watching.

The divorced dads moved in predictable orbits, like satellites tethered to their routines of pain. Each motion foretold: the grief-dulled eyes searching shelves, the careful selection of self-help books. They cradled these books—How to Rebuild, Co-Parenting Gracefully, Starting Over Without Breaking Apart—fragile artifacts of their wreckage. Each a confession.

She spotted him reading alone: mid-forties, glasses perched on a face carved by regret. His basket held the wreckage of a broken life: parenting books beside pulp thrillers, a sports biography wedged awkwardly between. Escape and penance, she thought, tasting wine and bitterness.

Makena straightened, adjusting her stance to soften the surrounding air. Not too much—a flicker of warmth, enough to signal openness. His eyes caught the movement. Good. An opening.

She was halfway to him when a voice stilled her sails.

“Hi! Are you a princess?”

At her side stood a girl—five, maybe six—curls half-tamed by a faded ribbon. A stuffed unicorn hung from one arm, seams frayed and belly worn with love. Her sneakers showed playground scars, her dress wrinkled with the defiance of a child who refused stillness.

Makena crouched. “Not exactly,” she murmured, her voice softened by surprise. “But thanks for asking.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “You look like one,” she declared, as if Makena’s leather jacket and worn boots were a royal disguise. “I’m Sophia. This is Mr. Fluff. He likes princesses.”

Sophia held up the unicorn, its button eyes radiating gentle wisdom. Makena took it, running her thumb over the worn fabric, the tactile proof of countless adventures. She handed it back. “Mr. Fluff’s got good taste.”

Sophia beamed. “Do you have a unicorn?”

Makena shook her head, the motion slower than intended. “Not anymore.” The words slipped out, delicate and exposed.

For a moment, she was eight, cradling her unicorn—Sparkle? Glitter?—its synthetic mane tangled from too much love. Her dad’s laugh filled every corner of the room while her mom watched from the couch, her usual sharpness softened by the scene. Family was permanent then, solid, a bond time wouldn’t dare to unravel. But time did.

“Why not?” Sophia pressed, tilting her head. The library distilled around Makena: the musty scent of bound curiosity, the muffled symphony of shuffling feet and secret tales.

“Guess I outgrew it,” she said. The words landed wrong, leaden with an old ache.

Sophia frowned. “That’s silly. You can’t outgrow unicorns.”

Makena’s chest cinched, the simplicity of the statement cutting deeper than it should. She wanted to agree, to fold the moment back into lightness. But memories surged, relentless.

Nine. Dad’s voice is sharp and unfamiliar in the kitchen. Mom’s hands gripping the counter, knuckles white against the wood grain. Lionel. A name tangled with excuses. “It’s not what you think,” he’d said. “People get lonely. Misunderstood.”

Mom forgave. Makena didn’t understand.

Ten. Raul this time. The name fell iron-heavy, cracking both heart and spirit deep. Mom forgave again. Makena didn’t.

Eleven. The door closing behind him, the sound empty. No explanations, no goodbyes. Only absence.

“Do you want to meet my dad?” Sophia’s voice pulled her back. She pointed across the room—to him. The man Makena had marked. The thought curdled now, sour and unwelcome.

Makena forced a tight-jawed smile. “Maybe later. You should show him Mr. Fluff before he gets worried.”

Sophia nodded, clutching the unicorn close. “Okay. Bye, princess!” She turned and skipped away.

Makena crouched on the linoleum, staring at where the girl had been, the air still warm with her presence. The man and the hunt faded from importance. She stood, brushed her jeans clean of emotion, and walked to the exit.

The doors opened wide, receiving her whole. She didn’t look back.

—

Six days after the library unmade her, Makena huddled in darkness, the knife block a jury of silent accusers. The tofu waited on the counter, pale and unmarked like a body she couldn’t bury. A week without meat. Her hands trembled—not from hunger, but anger, raw and marrow-deep, thrumming through her bones and whispering: This isn’t you.

She’d thought starving the beast might silence it. But a diet of carrots, lentils, and restraint only held the hunger with fraying sutures. Her beast grew louder. Feral. It prowled her dreams and gnashed through her waking hours. The first slice through flesh had never been about food. It was ceremony. A hymn.

She chewed the carrot until her jaw ached, tongue recoiling from its lifeless, fibrous body. No warmth, no pulse. In the sink, kale sagged—waterlogged, bloodless, judging.

Makena’s fist slammed the counter. The cats fled to shadow. Good. She wanted no witnesses. In the dark window, her reflection stared back—eyes primal and human.

“I tried,” she said, the words breaking the air. A confession. To the tofu, the kale, the empty room. To herself. Her voice came thready, fragile. She loathed the sound of it.

They’d sworn peace through abstinence. Lies. Her mind circled the knife—steel slicing flesh like silk, bone splintering into white petals beneath the blade. The silence after. Perfect harmony.

Her hand moved, curling around the cool, familiar handle. The knife slid free, light skimming its surface in a shifting reflection. Her heart slowed. Her hands stilled.

Balance wasn’t abstinence. Balance was the blade.

Tomorrow, maybe, she’d start again. Tonight, she held the knife.

—

Morning light bled pale through the blinds, brushing the walls with faint streaks of gold. The news crept and murmured through the fog of her half-sleep: “Authorities suspect a single individual may be behind the recent spree of stabbing deaths.” The words snagged Makena mid-dream, pulling her awake with an ache settling like a cough.

By nightfall, the sentence played on repeat, vining through her thoughts like a weed, choking the edges of her calm.

This had to be the last one. It had to be.

Makena crouched in the alley’s mouth, gut clenched in brutal knots. Fighting bile in her throat, she kept her eyes fixed on the faint glow of piss pooling in shadows. She’d tracked him since the meeting—from parent center through bars and down streets. Each hour had drawn the noose tighter around her patience, the tension feeding her nausea.

This is the moment.

Pain tore through her side, nearly buckling her knees. Blood filled her mouth where she’d bitten her cheek. The agony blurred everything to fog. She’d come here to kill, but her body was killing her first. She sucked air through clenched teeth, pressed hard against her stomach, and rode out the burning wave of pain.

The only sound was the trickle of his piss hitting concrete.

She crept closer, knife cold against her palm. Her uterus screamed with each step, fibroids twisting deep. Weakness is failure, her mother’s voice hissed in her mind. You keep going or you lose.

A clatter—metal striking pavement—shattered the quiet.

She swung towards the noise. A cat bolted from the shadows, a blur of fur and panic. She cursed under her breath.

He flinched, zipped up, and turned toward the sound. Toward her.

“Who’s there?” His voice was rough and drunk, the threat dulled by confusion.

Makena froze, caught in the narrow beam of his eyes.

She smiled.

“Oh my God,” she stammered, her tone shaky and girlish. “I didn’t mean to… God, I’m so sorry.” Her hand flew to her chest, a lifeline grasped in the storm of panic.

“What the hell are you doing?” His stance eased—not much, but enough.

She let her lips tremble, let her face collapse. Vulnerable. “I—I got lost. I thought this alley led back to the street.”

He laughed, the loose, full-bodied laugh of a man certain he’s the smartest one here. “Jesus, lady. Walking down alleys alone at night? You got a death wish or something?”

She smiled, taking a step closer. “Maybe. Or maybe I just got lucky.”

He raised an eyebrow, his cocky smirk softening into intrigue. “Lucky?”

She nodded, her body relaxing as she closed the gap. The pain still gnawed, but adrenaline dulled it, pushed it away.

“You’re cute,” she said, her voice cotton candy soft. “You all by yourself out here?”

“Guess I am.” His grin widened. “What’s it to you?”

She was inches from him, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath, the sweat clinging to his clothes. Her grip on the knife tightened.

“Can I kiss you?”

His eyes lit up. “You don’t gotta ask me twice.”

She brushed his lips with hers, feather-light. He leaned in, eager. She struck.

The blade slipped in beneath his navel. his body locking tight, breath strangled. She drew the knife upward with cruel patience, feeling flesh part until steel met bone.

The darkness hid his expression. She wanted to see the moment his ego broke. All she got was shadow.

Her father’s face flickered in her mind. Not his real face, but the warped one memory conjured. Sometimes furious. Sometimes blank, indifferent. And sometimes—on the worst days—smiling.

Memories lied, twisting to fit the mood. The present didn’t. She killed to stay in it, clinging to the only truth she could trust.

She yanked the knife free, letting him wash against the wall. He slid, leaving a streak of blood.

Makena recoiled, her chest heaving. The pain in her stomach flared, and this time, she let herself feel it. The ache anchored her. Reminded her she was alive.

She wiped the blade on his shirt, turned, and walked into the night. The alley devoured the noise, leaving the city to carry on, indifferent and unknowing.

*************************************************************************************

“They Said”

by Makena Liebe

12th Grade Capstone Project

They said,

You could stretch like a rubber band,

Grow tall like a tree,

Or stand as strong as a mountain.

No wrong way to be.

They said,

You could wear bright colors,

Stomp so loud everyone hears you,

Or move so quietly no one sees you—

It’s all okay.

They said,

You could stay still,

Or fly like a bird,

Be soft like rain,

Or strong like the wind.

But I wondered—

If I became the storm,

Would it still be okay?

*************************************************************************************

The days blurred into a haze of muted recalibration as Makena’s hunt shifted from alleys to screens. Her fingers flew over the keys with machine-gun rhythm, gloved in quiet discontent, while her eyes scanned profiles with the cold precision of a predator. The screen filled with familiar debris: husbands posing as bachelors, boys feigning maturity, and careless thieves leaving tracks.

Trevaun didn’t belong in the pile. His profile carried a deliberate weight—enough confidence to graze arrogance without tipping in. A father of two, divorced, seeking “real” but “open to fun.” The phrasing was forgettable, but the tone sang underneath: practiced swagger, concealing a limp. Three exchanged messages laid him bare—hungry, unraveling, ripe.

Perfect.

The texts started slow, each line a poke testing unseen boundaries. By the third night, they throbbed with electric undercurrent. She let him believe he held the helm; her prompts seamless enough to blend with his instincts. By week’s end, his messages dripped with want, pleading for more.

—

The coffee shop was hers—every angle, shadow, and escape mapped in advance. She arrived early, her presence carefully planned: a dress soft without clinging, a loose scarf at her throat, restless as smoke.

Trevaun appeared in the doorway, a silhouette of broad shoulders and over-practiced ease. His eyes roamed until they locked on hers, an uncertainty flickering there like a pilot light.

“Makena?” he asked, his voice lighter than his stride.

Her smile clicked, warm and unhurried. “That’s me.” She stood, offering a brief hug, her hand a gentle brushstroke against his back.

He withdrew, studying her with the quick skepticism of a man half-sure of his luck. “You don’t look like your pictures.”

Her laugh was soft, shaded with apology. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned closer. “I figured you’d say that. It’s embarrassing, but…” Her voice dropped, careful and intimate. “I’ve been burned before. Catfished so bad I couldn’t even be mad—just impressed.” A self-deprecating shrug. “Plus, with my job, I have to be careful. Thought you’d understand. So…”

“Yeah, I get it.” He frowned, weighing her words like unfamiliar currency. “World’s full of crazies.”

“Exactly.” Her smile widened. “But now we’re here. No more pictures. Just us.”

His hesitation stretched into a grin. “Alright. Clean slate.”

“Clean slate,” she echoed, brushing his arm as they settled into their chairs.

The conversation unfolded with ease, her role precise and fluid. He spoke of his boys—his love for them marked by the ache of weekends-only fatherhood. She laughed on cue, her gaze lingering where it counted. A seamless choreography, her lead slight and uninterrupted.

“You’re trouble.” Her voice was silk and steel as she pulled him closer.

“The good kind.” He leaned in.

Her smile tilted. “Think you can prove it?”

—

The walk to the motel was brisk, his chatter ballooning into boasts, his swagger inflating with each step. She stoked the fire with coy glances and soft laughs. By the time they reached the room, his confidence loomed, ready to topple under its own weight.

At the door, he fumbled with a keycard. She paused, watching as he swiped and nudged the door open. Her smile sharpened, disbelief glinting in her eyes.

“Got it earlier,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “In case it rained.”

She glanced at the clear, star-bright sky. “Rain?” Her smirk cut deeper as she stepped inside.

"Or, you know...," he muttered, shifting his weight. "Figured we might need a place to talk."

“Talk,” she echoed, letting the word hang. Her gaze swept the room—beige walls, sagging bed, a lamp flickering on the edge of existence.

“I wasn’t assuming,” he stammered. “It’s just... convenient.”

“Convenient,” she murmured, brushing his forearm with a velvet touch. “How considerate.”

His lips parted, but her finger pressed them closed. Her fingers traced his chest, her smile sharpening to a point. “It’s perfect,” she whispered. “You’re perfect.”

He turned to the dresser, wallet in hand, blind to her steady, deliberate movements.

Her scarf slipped loose, coiling in her hands. She unzipped her dress, the fabric sliding down in a hush to pool at her feet. Black lace and pale skin gleamed in the dim light.

From her bag, she drew a length of rope, the fibers gliding through her fingers like poured milk. Every movement was practiced—a rhythm and ritual she knew by heart.

She stepped forward, close enough for him to feel her presence, her voice low and steady.

“Get into bed.”

Her tone held no room for question, only an undeniable calm that carried the weight of inevitability.