Page 2 of Bad for You

I pinch his chin, pursing his lips out to resemble the little bitch that he is. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

He believes I’m getting off on his “bad boy” persona. “I’ve done so many bad things, baby, I’d make that pretty head of yours spin.”

I gush dramatically. “Oh please, Daddy, tell me.”

“I fuck up anyone who stands in my way…man, woman, or child. No one stops The D-Man from getting what he wants.”

I barely contain my laughter. The D-Man? Dead man walking, perhaps?

“I heard you deal…drugs,” I whisper, staging complete and utter shock. “Is that true?”

“You heard right, baby. I’m the motherfucking king of these streets. People cower when they hear my name.”

I smile, but nothing is sweet about it. “Is that because it’s a fucking ridiculous name…Georgie Toole who wears SpongeBob pajamas to bed?”

I literally see the moment when The D-Man aka Georgie Toole realizes he’s about to be fucked…and not in the way he paid me fifteen bucks for.

“Who are you?” He tugs at the cuffs around his wrists, but he isn’t going anywhere. I made sure of that the moment I accidentally on purpose flushed the key down the toilet.

“I am no one,” I reply because I am.

I don’t know my name. I wasn’t given one at birth. But the sisters at the orphanage named me Valentina because I was left on their doorstep on Valentine’s Day. And it stuck.

But the woman who was more a mother to me than my own taught me to own that name. She taught me to be true to who I really am, and that is…I am a killer, trained by the woman who adopted me when I was ten years old.

And that woman is Gianna Ricci.

I owe her everything, which is why I do her bidding and do so with a smile.

“It’s time to make your peace,” I calmly state as I always do with the many faceless men like Georgie.

It’s the least I can do.

“You fucking whore!” he screams, the cuffs rattling against the headboard. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

I tsk him lightly. “Shh, let us pray. Our Father, who art in heaven…”

Before he can pollute this world any further, I pull out the blade in my boot and stab him in the throat. I don’t like delaying gratification.

“Hallowed be thy name,” I continue, reciting the Lord’s Prayer as my adopted Italian accent, thanks to Gianna, shines through.

This prayer was recited to me over and over as I was defiled, humiliated, and abused, so this is me taking it back as I won’t allow the past to rule me.

His eyes widen, shock overcoming him as he realizes the mistake he made by picking up a “hooker” on the corner all because he wanted his dick sucked before reruns ofSeinfeld.

I slice through Georgie’s muscles and tendons with precision because I could do this with my eyes closed. I have been trained by the best. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.”

Georgie’s gurgles indicate he’s drowning in his own blood. I imagine it’s a horrible way to die, and the blood bubbles that pop from his mouth are almost hypnotic.

“On earth as it is in heaven,” I continue, cutting across his throat, then slicing down his chest.

Blood coats my hands and face, just as it always does, and I can hear it—his heartbeat, as well as my father clapping in cadence to the beating of his failing heart.

“Give us this day our daily bread.” I recite this prayer as it seems the appropriate thing to do when taking someone’s life. But it also reminds me of why I do this and revel in the blood.

It reminds me of the blood that runs in my veins—part monster, part saint.

But I am beyond saving.

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