DON'T CHEAT ON ME!

CHAPTER 19: SATAN!

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I turned on the radio in the living room, hoping to drown out the maddening silence. A haunting melody filled the room—low, dissonant, and wrong. My lips curled into a grin.

“Oh, Satan must be dancing tonight.”

I muttered, my voice echoing eerily.

I moved to the kitchen, the dim light casting shadows that swayed with every flicker of the flame on the stove. My fingers tightened around the knife. Cold. Sharp. Deadly. Slowly, deliberately, I sliced his eye–the one I took from him earlier. The knife clicked against the wooden board, each sound punctuating my heartbeat.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out, Dave?”

I whispered to the empty room, my voice dripping with venom.

“You and Patricia. So sloppy. So predictable.”

I tossed the garlic into the sizzling oil, the hiss like a serpent’s call. The smell of sautéing onions filled the room. I inhaled deeply, letting the aroma mix with my rage.

“Do you remember how she moaned your name?”

I asked, my tone shifting, mocking now.

“Ah-h, Dave… Ahh, Dave… How pathetic!”

I giggled, the sound high-pitched and unnatural, like it didn’t belong to me.

The pot of water on the stove began to boil, bubbles rising to the surface as if to escape the heat.

I reached into the sink, pulling out a slab of raw meat. My fingers trailed over it, tracing imaginary lines as my mind wandered.

“Now, Dave...

I said, switching to a singsong voice,

..what should I do with you? Should I start with your head? Or maybe… maybe I should begin somewhere else.”

I paused, tilting my head as if considering his response.

“You don’t care? Oh, Dave..

I sighed dramatically,

..you always were so... generous. But don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re delicious.”

The knife gleamed under the kitchen light as I began cutting. My movements were slow, methodical, almost reverent. Each slice was accompanied by a comment, a taunt.

“This piece here?”

I held up a chunk of meat.

“This must be your heart. So cold. So useless. But don’t worry, I’ll season it just right.”

I dropped the piece into the pot.

“And this one..

I continued, holding up another piece,

..this is your ego. It’s so… inflated. Let’s see if it deflates in boiling water.”

The room grew warmer, the steam from the pot mixing with the oppressive atmosphere. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, smearing a streak of something—blood, perhaps?

“You know, Dave,”

I said conversationally,

“Patricia wasn’t even worth it. All that effort for someone so… plain. You could’ve at least betrayed me with someone exciting. But no. You chose her.”