Michael Desousa had made a very poor life choice. His wife - who if he was being honest, he loved very much - had become distant recently. They had only married recently, but they had been dating for quite some time prior to that. However, ever since the marriage, his wife had moved in to his modest home, and become increasingly unhappy.
Michael had no idea why. He let her buy anything she wanted and she was free to pursue work or education at her leisure. He felt that purely as a provider, who had created the ideal situation for the woman he loved.
Unfortunately, Michael, like any man with a demanding, well paid job, had personal needs. Needs he expected his now wife to, if not always take care of, care about. Said needs had gone largely ignored since the wedding though, which was why, in a slightly drunken moment of pique, Michael had gone out to find a hooker.
He realized that the correct term was probably some inoffensive tripe that one of his younger, more socially engaged coworkers could tell him, but to Michael, a hooker was a hooker was a hooker.
It hadn’t been altogether that hard. After dark the streets of Toronto’s downtown core were just about littered with sex workers. The oldest profession wasn’t illegal here - just verbally soliciting was. So finding a hooker mostly just amounted to locating a woman who was dressed well… like a hooker.
And Michael had gone above and beyond that calling. Despite the the chill in the air, he had come across the most arousing little minx he had ever dared to imagine. Sleek toned legs, a pert butt, and just enough in the chest department to fit comfortably in his hand if he was measuring it right. All poured in to a barely decent pair of shorts, and a jacket that didn't go down past mid torso.
He had money, and she had time, and they were going to have a wild night that no one would ever discover. He did his research after all. He turned his phones gps off, he found a motel that didn't have cameras, and he paid for the room in cash. The perfect, sexy crime.
“I’m just saying, you get home from a hard day and you kind of expect the mrs to have a glass of bourbon a sandwich and kiss ready for you right?.” Michael could hear through the haze of pain and misery that had become his life within mere moments of agreeing to be tied to the bed.
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He hadn’t even gotten to touch the bitch before she’d jabbed him in the neck with something, and he’d found himself suddenly quite unable to articulate himself. Or scream. Or beg.
The redhead lazing in the rooms single recliner looked at him expectantly, as though awaiting an answer. After a few moments, she nodded her head, giggling. It was not girlish giggle. In fact, when Michael held it up next to the unrefined snort his wife made when amused, it was down right horrifying.
“It’s just, there's like this itch you know? Not like being horny or nothin’, in… here?” The woman, whose name Michael had never actually asked for said. Her hand fluttered between where her heart would be, and her temple, as though unsure which one she was referring to.
She gave Michael a knowing look then and shrugged.
“You know how it is though right boss? You slave away to put food on the table and they just won't put out. S’fucking unfair, but we tolerate it cus we love ‘em.” The clearly unhinged redhead stood, reaching into her purse.
Michael felt a sense of dread unlike ever before when she stood. He couldn’t tell why but there was an instinctual fear present. Like his body, which would barely listen to him at the moment, had known all along that this was a bad idea. He swore, when this was all over he would come clean to his wife. It was a moment of weakness. He was drunk and lonely. They could go to couples counselling together. Maybe he could even get some time off to-
Michaels thoughts were cut short, almost literally, by the six inch long butchers knife that she pulled out. The purse, which he had at first largely ignored, seemed only barely large enough to fit the weapon, and for the first time that night it dawned on Michael that he might genuinely die tonight.
“So anyway, I fill the fridge, I get dressed up all ready to fuck, and what do I get? Barely a pat on the fucking head.” The woman who Michael suspected might not actually be a hooker said, approaching him with the knife. The handle, which looked like it was made out of the most generic of woods, was carved with intricate designs that seemed too complex to take in with the naked eye. They slipped and slithered under his gaze, defying any attempt at understanding.
That was the last thing Michael DeSousa ever saw. Not the blade as the knife hurtled down onto his throat with unnerving strength and accuracy. Not the perfect hand that brought it down on him. Not even the manic grin his murderer had on as she killed him.
Just those carvings.
“It’s like they always say boss. Love makes us do crazy things.” Jane chortled, stepping back to prevent arterial spray from mussing her clothes. If she got any on herself she’d have to do her own laundry - or heaven forbid, burn the offending articles somewhere. It wouldn’t do to have delicate little Alan see how the bills got paid after all.
Remembering the bills, she pulled a pair of cheap nitrile gloves from her purse, and quickly rifled through the man's pockets. She hadn’t bothered to learn his name, and when she found his wallet, she didn’t bother to read it either. Instead, she simply pulled the three hundred dollars in cash from the expensive looking leather, and let the rest fall to the ground. Then she wiped her butchers knife on the bed sheets, repacked all of her things in her purse - and left, no one the wiser.