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If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t advertise it to the world. I wouldn’t tell anyone—not even my mother—that I was going to do it. I wouldn’t frown at you the few times we’re in public together or tell you to keep your opinions to yourself.
Instead, I would study you, dissecting you like an insect under a microscope. Many things change in twenty years; we certainly have. I would have to relearn you, study your habits. Like the way you take your coffee: two sugars and one scoop of cream; the way you always leave it on the counter—unattended—while you go to the bathroom. Or the way you drink other things at night, before stumbling into your bedroom, slamming the door and then crying until you fall asleep. I would also check your medicine cabinet, to see what you’re taking these days, for those times when you can’t sleep. I could ask you, but that would only make you suspicious. “Since when you care?” you'd ask, your lips quivering, and I wouldn’t know how to reply. No, talking to you would be a mistake. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t keep a diary. Unlike you, I wouldn’t pour all my inner thoughts and feelings—too many feelings—into the pages of a leather-bound notebook. I wouldn’t write that I hate my life, that I can’t wait to leave it behind. Instead, I would post pictures of us on Facebook—even if they’re old—with captions worthy of a Hallmark card, saying things like how lucky I am to have a woman in my life who loves me and accepts me for who I am, even if we both know that’s not true. No, if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already. I would tell you I had to go on a work trip. And on the day of my departure, I would call to you from outside until you walked out onto the porch, a question on your face. I’d yell “I love you,” and “I’ll miss you,” for all the neighbors to hear. I would blow you a kiss, ignoring your confused—and maybe hopeful—face. Then I would drive a few hours out of my way, rent a room in some roadside motel, and leave my phone in there, knowing it could be tracked. Then I’d drive back, park far away from the house and walk the rest of the way. I would find you deep in sleep, and wake you just long enough to feed you the rest of the pills. Then I would wait until your body got cold before walking back to the car, driving back to the motel, and dozing off while waiting to get the call. When it came, I would cry an Oscar-worthy performance, and talk to the police about the pills, and the diary, reiterating that no matter how much I loved you, you never felt it was enough. And when they asked me if I ever wanted to kill you, like it said in the diary, I would say that if I had truly wanted to kill you, I would have already done it many, many years ago. © 2025 R.S. Nelson About the author: R.S. Nelson is a Latina writer who lives and finds inspiration in Southern California. Her work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, SciFiSat, Every Writer, Every Day Fiction, Twin Bird Review, and elsewhere. You can find more of her stories on her website: [email protected]
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I mean, Henderson said and did outrageous things all the time. Like when your uncle said, That curvy gal over there looks like a fridge. Henderson clapped back, I’d raid that fridge, to be honest. Or that Thanksgiving he made stuffing in a sheet pan, cut it into squares and everyone thought they were German chocolate brownies. You remember the great brownie disappointment? Everyone spit them out in disgust and he filmed them doing it. Yeah, he did that. So, when he came up with this weird way to rob people, we were like, it’s just Henderson being Henderson. Sure, it was illegal, but he thought he’d get away with it. No real physical harm, he said. Not in the traditional sense. It’s a good bet his victims are still traumatized. Imagine if he did that to you? Come up to you on the street holding the world’s biggest slithering water bug. Those giant ones they call Toe-Biters. Like roaches as long as your forefinger that actually bite. I know, right? Terrifying. So Henderson starts yapping at the Waffle House, saying he read that Toe-Biters lunge at people. The waitress hears this and says, Seriously, I’m so afraid of bugs, I think someone could rob me with a roach.
That’s how it all started. Henderson was way behind on his student loan payments. I know, right? He says, I bet I could do that. And I said, Bet. Henderson says, I’ll bet you twenty bucks it works. Next thing you know, he’s captured those sons of bitches by leaving a standing water trap outside with big bright lights on it. That’s how committed he was. He researched the shit out of those bugs. He practiced in front of the mirror, holding the wriggling thing between his fingers. Holding it up like a gun, Give me your purse! Give me your watch! Give me your rings! He killed the first roach with all that practicing. Man, I wish I’d been there to watch him rehearse. See if that bug fought back or lived up to its Toe-Biter name. So he texts me, Bring the fifty bucks you’re gonna owe me. And I say, the bet was twenty. He was always gaslighting me. We decided on a place to meet. An intersection where folks walk by and then turn sharply at the corner, giving him a place to spring from the shadows. Right across from the coffee shop on Fifteenth and Avenue K. I stand across the street and watch him; he’s got one hand in his pocket where he’s holding the Toe Biter, one hand holding his phone. He picks out a single female and sticks the bug right in her face and lets it lunge. She drops her purse, screeches, and runs. He gives me a thumbs up. Then he reloads his hand, replays this same scenario. I kid you not, I saw him get at least three purses that night. A bunch of his would-be victims ran away screaming, but he made a good haul. I walk over and say, Damn, you were right. Here’s your ten. And I look at his hand and see that the last nasty roach is dead. Henderson says, I got too excited. I say, Well now you know it’s possible. I see him at the Waffle House a week later, and he’s wearing this new leather jacket. Yeah, the one they buried him in. Anyway, he’s got a sideways smile that day, offers to buy my lunch, which he never does. I’ve made bank this week, he says. He was still at it, still holding people at bug-point, paying his bills with stolen cash and credit cards. I say, Someone’s gonna turn you in. He says, No one’s reported me because they’re embarrassed that they gave up their goods over an insect. Pride. For the first time in his life, he had a valid point. Then he says, Got a whole container of those little weapons at home now, only been bitten twice, but now I wear a glove. He tapped his forehead twice. Guess I was supposed to think he was a genius. Anyway, the day he last went back to the corner, he was riding high. He does the same ploy, they caught it on camera. Holds the bug right up to the face of this big woman. Built like a fridge big. You saw her mugshot, right? He jabbed the bug into her face twice and the bug lunged, went down her cleavage, which was ample. The bug got stuck there. She flew into a rage, wiggling the bug off her chest and onto the pavement. Then she pulled a .38 from her bag, fired five times. RIP bug. RIP Henderson. Henderson, man. Shoulda quit while he was ahead. © 2025 Karen Harrington About the author: Karen Harrington is an award-winning writer of novels and short stories. Her work has appeared in Best American Mystery & Suspense (2024), Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Guilty Crime Story Magazine, and Mystery Tribune. Say hello on X @KA_Harrington |
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