Look– they’re one of your oldest friends. And no matter what happened (or didn’t happen) between you romantically, you never thought they were a psychopath. They just weren’t interested in you like that. With a deep sigh, you look them right in the eye, give a smile you hope looks supportive, and ask, “what happened?”
The story that spills out isn’t pretty. Their partner was a real piece of shit — abusive, needy, and, in the end, murderous. And yet, your best friend was ready. They were never one to go down without a fight. And as they get to the awful climax of their story, you see a fire in their eyes that you’ve never seen before. A terrifying vengefulness. The beginnings, you realize with a deep unease, of a monster.
Their story is over, and there is no sound but your shared breathing, heavy and passionate. Their eyes are practically all you can see in the moonlight, the whites shining but the pupils dark. Staring right at you. Into you. They look at you in your dumb, frumpy winter coat, their lips curling into the slightest snarl.
“I knew I could trust you with this.” They say, their breathing suddenly calm. “I needed to get it off my chest. And you’ve always been there for me.”
“Yeah…” you say, starting to stand.
They leap at you, hands tightening around your neck with impossible speed and power. You can barely fight back, your arms stiff in the thick winter coat. And it’s in this dumb, ugly coat, neck snapped, that the rescue team finds you in the morning, all alone in the glen, a hand stuck luridly down your pants. They’d rule it an accidental suicide.