♥⛧ 𝔅𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 ⛧♥

Mary Morgan

If they make monsters of men we must make terrors of ourselves.

I have an insatiable lust for blood.

I sit in my house, legs splayed wide on the wooden floor, the sun blasting through the windows as a train screeches along tracks within eyeshot and earshot, twirling a knife in my hands, closing my eyes to feel the distinct weight of the blade versus the handle, flipping it over, and over, until it is an extension of my hand, a new growth that I am the first to develop, a simple evolutionary need for these monsters, for every monster needs a slayer.

I practice throwing it at the white walls. I grew up throwing knives. I apologize in my head to the walls, for they have done nothing to deserve this, but, as I explain to them, I cannot practice outside, for I live in a city, and I cannot risk (1) hitting something living or (2) being carted off to some other white-walled room much less pleasant than this sun-dripped one.

Have you ever cleaned blood out of a bathtub?

The first time I cleaned blood out of a bath was easy enough. I stepped into the porcelain The red liquid oozed down my breast bone, pooling in my belly button, dripping down my thighs until it made little ski slopes down my shins and calves. Red circled the drain, changing color as it diluted itself with the hot water, fading from darkness to light, much as I had felt that night’s actions had done, faded some darkness into light.

There is still a spot of blood on the ceiling above the shower. It would be so easy to clean but I like it there. I’m not sure whether as a reminder or a warning.

The next time, I rented a hotel room specifically for my monster slaying. I did not want to taint, literally and figuratively, my own bath with delicious redness.

There was so much more blood to clean that time, my body morphing from its natural warm-undertone honey beige to scarlet, a crimson person emerging from the lagoon. Leaving red footprints as I fetched a bottle of cremant from the mini fridge in the bedroom.

There is no more euphoric bath than bathing in the blood of your enemies.

However, the cleanup, not so ideal. I’m a horrendous cleaner at best, anyone can tell you, it’s really not my strong suit. But it’s rather important for this type of work. I was a novice at the time, and did not account for the sheer amount of grout that was in this particular bathroom.

If you are ever to follow in my bloody footsteps, let me warn you, choose your bathrooms wisely.

Do not choose one with teeny tiny tiles all over the walls with white grout in between them.

Anyway so there I was, hot with blood and hot from the bath and hot from the bottle of bubbles I slammed, on my hands and knees scrubbing fucking blood out of about oh I don’t know thousands of tiles. I wore down all of my nails. After about three hours I no longer saw red, and went to bed. The next morning, I turned the lights on in the bathroom, and it was like one of those scenes from a horror film, fucking blood still everywhere, my eyes had apparently stared at the color for so long I had neutralized it and didn’t see it any more the night before. So another three hours of cleaning and I thought, well, that’s as good as it’s going to get, and stole all the now red towels, and fled that hotel. Safe to say I am very much not welcome back there.

I tell all of this to you, dear reader, for I am curious if you are a monster or a slayer. If you’re like me, please, come to me, and I’ll teach you how you too can grow a knife from your veins, forged of your own heartbeat and their blood. I await your reply.

But If you’re a monster. you’d better start running. Monsters think they’re a darkness but they’re merely a shadow. I am the night. I will swallow you whole and leave no trace. Nothing but a drop of blood on my lips. And maybe on my ceiling.

Mary Morgan @msmarymorgan, starry-eyed queen of chaos, is a writer, artist, and academic. Hailing from Buffalo, she now resides in London, where she is a PhD researcher. Her thesis, I Want Revenge, focuses on (REDACTED). Her preferred state of existence is naked, covered in blood, eating cake.