“I want to kill you,” he said.

She smiled, dancing with him and playfully biting at his ear. “Oh, really?”

She was amused and thrilled, having wanted to die so badly. If we are to have an end in mind, well, this was her final cause.

“Take me home, then. Fuck me.”

He glared at her in all seriousness and she thought for a minute that she had found her own pole, a nerve ending, or a cosmological twin. She felt hope at the prospect of annihilation. She wanted vulgarity and brutality and the furthest thing away from virtue. She was obsessed with the grotesque and with smut because she knew it mirrored her, that at the same she was appalled by it and wanting it even more because of that. She wanted something so far gone that it was her, and she wanted to fall into its reflection and drown in its lake.

But when he took her home, he could not find her. There was no union, no double murder. He was masturbating inside of her.

“You’re a failure,” She snapped at him. “I put the gun to my own head, all you had to do was pull the trigger. You couldn’t do it. You cannot kill. You cannot love.”

She walked home the long way, attempting to look frail and scared, hoping that someone would rip off her expensive dress and rape her. The perpetrators never came. In our weakest moments, redemption never seems to come.

She went home and sat at her bureau naked. She would make it happen. She would make everything happen.

She let her hand slip up her thigh, seeing her whole face about to consume her. There was no soul and she had no exterior pole to fall into, it was all contained within her one body. All that was left was for her to reach her hand in, like slicing an atom, like a fire cracker in her palm, her vagina contracting as the universe contracts, and pull out her own existence.