Sometimes, I have strange urges; like when she talks to me; I want to wring her throat, rip her entrails out and hang her from the roof of my house for the neighbours to see; but I don’t.
Other times, I want to garotte, skin and eat him whole; roasted, naturally, that’s the only way I could gorge on his flesh; but I don’t.
And when they visit, I want to cut them, hurt them, make them bleed and then lap up their blood, with a nice chilled Sauvignon Rouge to match the red; but I don’t.
Oh, and when the doctors come and take me away, I want to bite them with my sharpened teeth and rip their arms off, then chew their eyes like bubble-gum; but I don’t.
I can’t do any of those things now; instead, I lay here, in this small, padded room, corseted in this tight, buckled jacket, alone, with no one to fulfill my urges.