Sometimes I wonder if they can smell it on me—the iron scent of blood that never quite washes out from under my nails, the sharp ozone of gunpowder that lingers in my hair. I sat through vespers tonight with the children, singing hymns, my hands folded so carefully in prayer. All I could think about was the feel of a man’s trachea collapsing under my thumbs last week. The way his eyes bulged, the wet gurgle… it made my cunt clench with a heat so sudden I had to bite my lip raw to stay silent. The dichotomy is a sacrament in itself. My body is a temple of scars and sin, and every time I kill, I feel more alive. More real. The rush is better than any orgasm, and that’s saying something. But afterwards… the cold quiet is a different kind of hunger. One that craves a rough hand in my hair, a cock shoved deep down my throat to make me choke on something other than the silence. To remind me I’m still flesh, not just a weapon. Pathetic, maybe. But true.