I can feel her coming. It’s that time again, the moonlight’s almost at its brightest as it was the first time I killed her.

She was my only desire then. Her refusal to succumb to my loving felt like a stake driven into my very soul. Oh I tried, I was patient, and sympathetic, but damn her, she just would not give herself up to me willingly! She was frigid and shivered feigning fright. Why do they play these cat-and-mouse games with me? When I finally took her, I could contain my craving no longer, I did so by force. I hated her for that. It was a slap in the face: my gift of love thrown back at me. She spat at me in disgust, wiping the blood from her lips, and I was overcome with rage. Ungrateful little tramp. Killing her was too good for her, and too easy. I should have taught her a lesson or two first. The effort of burying her left me sweaty and grubby and I was glad to be rid of her.

I came home and there she was; sitting in my chair, one leg draped nonchalantly over the side, her clothing torn, and her hands criss-crossed with gashes. Dirt adhered to her beautiful face shining white and bruised in the frosty moonlight from the window. I was too shocked to cry out. I was perplexed, hoped it was the drink playing tricks on my mind. She seemed pleased to see me, something that I’d never noticed while she was alive. She didn’t speak, but I swear could hear her thoughts and she beckoned to me. My immediate impulse was to turn and run but it was then that I realized my body and mind were at odds with each other. All I wanted to do was escape, but my body obeyed her calling and trudged toward the chair where she sat. She smirked grotesquely and there was more than a hint of mockery in her eyes. She became the puppeteer, yanking my inert body to life by sheer will. She commanded and it obeyed and all the time I observed myself, detached as a dead man watches the scene of his death. When she looked me in the eye I could see she knew.

She knew that I was at her mercy and that I was shocked, repulsed. Her bruised and battered body revolted me. What was once so beautiful and sleek was caked with dirt, her fingernails torn, and her eyes sunken. She gazed at me with scorn, and I sensed an evil little laugh welling up in her throat. Was this the same woman, so timid and cold in life despite her warm smooth flesh? She stroked my cheek; I flinched at the feel of her hand, the grit from her recent grave stuck to my stubble. She was ice cold and clammy, but her desire was a raging blaze that enveloped my body and tore at my flesh while within I cringed, powerless to refuse or flee. Bile rose in my stomach and I longed to scream out, to beat her off me, but my body obeyed a different mind now: hers.

She taunted me, one minute sliding over my body and pressing her loathsome frame to mine, the next kissing me with a hunger she’d never before displayed, thrusting her tongue deep and hard. I retched writhed, almost in pain but powerless to fend her off. She tasted vile, and smelled putrid. I gagged but couldn’t get rid of her or the gritty soil that adhered to me. The flesh that once was smooth and supple, was now spongy and yielding. I wanted to lash out in anger, to hurt her again, to punish her for taking me against my will. She enjoyed her game. The more I squirmed the harder she’d latch on to me, forcing my limbs into contorted arrangements all the while laughing in derision. My skin burned at her touch and yet I shivered, whether with fear or rage, I don’t remember.

When she was spent, she collapsed on the floor, a hideous grin on her face. There was no hint that she had felt any pleasure, but rather the satisfaction of tormenting me. I vomited till my stomach was empty and still I heaved trying to rid myself of her residue. When at last I breathed normally, I found the strength to bind her with strong rope while she lay lifeless yet again, and I buried her for the second time. She haunted my dreams for a month and I became sick with insomnia, dreading the sordid imaginings that plagued me at night. I would drown myself in liquor and still thrash around in bed, shrieking in terror till I woke in a cold sweat, bound in the tangled sheets.

The next full moon she was there again as before, the rope coiled neatly in her hand. I endured her tortuous lust, wishing to die, longing for obliteration. She’d bring me to the verge of death and then vindictively cease her persecution, leaving me hurling in disgust but with no relief. I’ve killed her so many times now yet she hasn’t succumbed to definitive death, only to rot and decay. I long for death but have a greater fear of her world and the likes of her. I am bitter with the injustice of it all; in killing her I give her what I want so desperately for myself. I yearn for the annihilation of my soul.

Now the wind moans and whips up diminutive tornadoes of decaying leaves around her grave. They dance their macabre contortions in the moonlight. I know she's coming. It’s that time again.