I touched the blade of my hunting knife to her neck, marveling at how splendid it looked against her pale skin.

“Please! Why are you doing this?” she screamed, flailing about the ground, her body caked in layers of mud and moist leaves.

“Because of your reviews,” I said, placing duct tape over her mouth. I slammed her face into the mud, touched her nose to mine and pinched her rosy cheeks.

I pulled back her red hair, moved the tip of the knife behind her ear, and playfully turned it over. The teeth of the serrated edge sunk gently into gristly cartilage as streams of blood washed against tearful pleadings. I held her dismembered ear between my teeth and laughed, her blood-soaked hair tangled into a hopeless nest. I opened my portfolio with a faint click, reached for the printed pages of my stories, and placed them on her chest. “Because of your reviews,” I said again, plunging the knife into her gut in a swift arc.