He certainly wasn’t the first man I have killed. And if all goes well, he won’t be the last. It doesn’t bring me joy knowing I am a murderer, but it brings purpose: vengeance. Retribution for those who deserve it. Some may say I’m playing God, deciding who lives and who doesn’t. But I know what I am, and it’s not any immortal being. I’m just doing the work that our systems fail to execute. No pun intended.
It’s not easy work, but I push on, nonetheless. Most don’t understand, or don’t have the strength to do it themselves. So I do it for all of those who can’t. It’s a thankless job, too; it’s not like I can tell people about what I do. And each client requires months of extraordinary preparation. It takes time to do this job well, and it has taken years for me to perfect my trade. But I am getting older and tired. I need to find someone to take over when my mind and body can no longer uphold this service. But until then, I will continue.
This most recent client, a young man with an exceptionally long list of offenses, had been the most difficult assignment of my career. All in all, the job had taken nearly 18 months to complete, which wasn’t the longest time I had spent on one individual. What made this particular case so difficult was his fame. I knew there would be a lot of questions asked when he went missing. Many people praised this man, despite what he had done. His millions of social media followers stayed loyal fans, through accusation after accusation. He was rarely in public alone, often followed by paparazzi and a horde of young women longing for even a taste of his attention. Even in his home, late at night, there were always others lingering. It was like the man couldn’t stand being alone. And that made my job onerous.
I had to be extremely cautious this time, more so than I had ever been. The job was only half done. Yes, he was dead; I had made sure of that by slipping a hefty dose of aconite into his mezcal. Now, I had to make sure no one ever found him or traced his disappearance back to me. I went to work, scrubbing down every surface I had touched. This was the one place he frequented where there were no cameras, no creeping fans or bodyguards. He paid the hotel staff to keep quiet. This is where he brought his dates, or more accurately, his victims.
As his body began to cool to an ambient 68 degrees, the temperature at which he had set the thermostat just an hour ago, I called on the spirits for help. I chant the spell, which I know by heart now, the Latin words rolling off my tongue so effortlessly you’d think I actually spoke the language. A soft hum filled the room, getting louder with each word. Every inanimate object in the room began to vibrate with a terrifying force. The spell was working.
This is the part where I usually black out. I always come to, after who knows how long, and the body is gone; the job is done. This time is no different. The world went dark, and then, there I am, lying on the stale hotel carpet. Alone. I stood up, straightening out my little black dress, which I had retrieved from the depths of my closet. I hadn’t worn this one since the night with the strip club manager; that had been a particularly fun night. For me, at least.
The dress was uncomfortably tight, sticking to every curve and crease like plastic wrap. The neckline plunged so deeply that I had to move with such precision so as not to involuntarily give the general public a show. I saved that for a select few whom I could find no other way to sequester. Those were the lucky ones, I suppose, who were bestowed a final gift—a coup d'œil of my breasts before they saw whatever it is that comes after life.
As clarity returned to me, which seemed to take longer and longer these days, I did one final sweep of the hotel room. Had anything fallen out of my purse when I tossed it onto the credenza? No. Had any of my hair clips fallen out during the night’s affairs? One, two, three, four, I counted. No. Had all his belongings disappeared with the body? Nothing on the carpet. I looked under the bed. Nothing there, either. I turned, still on my hands and knees, craning my neck to look under the oversized armchair that took up too much space in the cramped room.
“Fuck,” I cursed aloud. A wallet. I would have to dispose of this later. “I really am getting too old for this job,” I sighed, tucking the remaining evidence into my bra. I stood, a little too quickly, and had to catch myself from falling over. The world spun for a moment, and then it was still again. A feeling I couldn’t quite place rushed over me; fear, maybe? It passed, just as quickly as this episode had. I grabbed my purse and slipped into the hallway. The door shut silently behind me as I joined the rest of the world. I pulled a scarf from my purse and wrapped it around my head, being cautious to avoid looking directly at anyone. I stepped into the busy hotel plaza, becoming just another nameless shape among the crowd.
In the morning, I woke to find an intense ache had spread across my body. I must be getting sick, I thought as I forced myself out of bed. I popped a handful of extra-strength Tylenol because, despite the pain, I had work to do. I needed to finish last night’s job. I needed to destroy the wallet. I knew doing magic two days in a row was risky, but I couldn’t take a chance that someone might find the single remaining item that tied me to his murder. I began the recitation, focusing all of my energy on this shiny, leather object, barely the size of my hand. The dark leather was smooth except for the cursive initials, J.W., carved in the corner. This should be easy, but nothing was happening. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to see, feel, smell, and hear nothing but the wallet. And for a moment, there was nothing.
When I came to, the wallet was gone. “Thank God,” I muttered, gingerly picking myself up from the floor. I must have been out for a while this time because the sun was already on the verge of retreating for the night. The ache was gone but was now replaced by a sharp throb in my side. I needed food to replenish what energy the incantation had taken from me. At first, it took only a day or two to recover, but now I often need at least a week to regain my strength. This time would likely require longer because of that damn wallet. I shuffled my way to the kitchen, half bent over from the pain, and rummaged through the fridge. I stared at the nearly empty shelves: a carton of almond milk, some questionable-looking berries, an unopened jar of pickles, and a handful of nearly empty condiment bottles. I shut the door and tried my luck with the freezer. I pulled out a frozen meal and stuck it in the microwave, watching as a fine layer of accumulated ice crystals began to melt, trickling down the polypropylene packaging.
I thought about my next client. I didn’t have the luxury to wait until I was fully rested to begin the next steps for that case. I try not to work multiple cases at once, but with how busy I have been, there’s a lot of overlap these days. I already completed the research phase of this next job; now I needed to begin putting the pieces in place. I fly to Minneapolis tomorrow for a dermatology conference. I have no particular interest in dermatology. I do, however, have a keen interest in one of the doctors who will be attending.
Like the last job, the accusations had been all over the news. Fortunately, this client did not have nearly the same amount of popularity, but still, this job would require extra caution. The doctor had managed to keep his license due to a lack of evidence, according to the judge, which meant it was time for me to step in. I grabbed my dinner from the microwave and went upstairs to pack. Between freezer burned bites of pasta, I stuffed clothing and toiletries into a duffel bag. There was no need for my little black dress this time. My plan for this client involved a different type of temptation: money.
The next morning, I was on the first flight out of Burbank. I shifted around in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position that eased the growing ache in my side. I’ll see a doctor when I get back, I thought. I tried to distract myself from the pain by looking out the window, but the scene of airport workers who were spread across the tarmac quickly turned into an open runway, which then transformed into an aerial view of sprawling Los Angeles. And then we were in a monotonous stretch of austere clouds, which stood no chance of diverting my mind from the sharp throb. I was well past the daily amount of Tylenol one is supposed to take, but I took three more anyways. I needed to focus, which meant I needed the pain to go away.
The flight felt like the longest five hours and two minutes of my life, but eventually I was in Minneapolis, waiting for my Lyft to the hotel where the conference was being held. Tonight, there was a welcome dinner at the hotel restaurant, where I would introduce myself to my target, using an alias, of course. I would tell him how impressed I was by his latest work onatopic dermatitis instead of eczema because it sounds more doctorly and pretentious. I will pretend to be fascinated by everything he tells me, and I will applaud him when he tells me how innovative and life-saving his research is. Finally, I will make him a proposition he surely won’t turn down, which will lead to a meeting to further discuss the details in private. Once we are alone, I will do what I need to do, and then I will make him vanish.
The Lyft pulled up to the curb where I stood. I crawled into the back seat of the silver Honda Accord and did my best to greet the driver. But my attempt at good afternoon came out in a gargled jumble. The driver didn’t seem to notice over the noisy stereo, or maybe he just didn’t care, and departed the terminal. On the way to the hotel, I replayed the plan over and over in my mind. I thought of all the ways it could go wrong and how I would adapt if it did. I memorized my backstory about inheriting a fortune from a great aunt who suffered from dreadful eczema. I was looking for a physician who could run a clinical trial, and, in honor of my great aunt, of course, I would fund the entire project.
I was ready; I just needed to make it a few more hours. Still, as we inched along in the rush hour traffic, the pain intensified. I tried to get the driver’s attention, but my vision began to blur and no words would leave my mouth. All I could do was lay in a sitting fetal position, clutching my side, trying not to scream. Was this what appendicitis felt like? Or maybe it was ovarian torsion. I think I had read about that somewhere. My entire body shook, and if I had eaten anything today, it would have been expelled, redecorating the back seat. I could feel something warm and wet on my fingers. I raised my hand to my face, watching as blood dripped down my arm and onto the vinyl seat. I managed to uncurl myself enough to look down at my abdomen. Something dark and smooth was protruding through my pale flesh. I watched in horror as the object slowly dislodged itself from my insides, becoming more discernible with every strained breath. Even covered in blood, I could make out the familiar cursive letters.
I had never questioned where things went when I made them disappear. I never worried about what the magic was doing to me all these years, but now the damage was apparent. Maybe this is what I deserve for deciding who lives and who doesn’t. Or maybe this is some kind of necromantic karma. Who knows? Some may say I’ve been playing God, but I know what I am, and it’s certainly not immortal.
About the author:
Alexandra Henry is an educator and writer based in the Pacific Northwest. Drawing from lived experience, they write fiction that explores resilience and the psychological aftermath of trauma.
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