I knew we were getting sloppy, which is why this was going to be the last one.

A discussion we've had on more occasions than I can remember, to be honest, but he swore it this time. Steven - who was, unlike usual, sober as the day he was born - had held my face between his hands and promised me that this would be it.

But now, I'm standing over another woman's body for the first time. The blood seeping through the left side of her security uniform is turning the carpet beneath her a sickening copper color, and her eyes, wide as a doe's, are looking past me to the room behind us.

We were planning to get out of this place, you see. On top of the weather being insufferable lately, (I'd like to go someplace warm for a while, and I think Steven's mostly on board with the idea) the unwanted attention is starting to get to us. We've targeted too many men from the same areas. We started feeling too comfortable, and I started feeling too confident. Mostly, though, (dear Lord would I never say this to him) Steven's aggression has evolved into something unmatched. It's hard to remember, sometimes, that it had started with nothing but the switchblade in his back pocket. The first few men were asleep, even; laying naked next to me in their bed. Steven would come in through the unlocked door without a sound, tilt their heads back with two fingers placed under their chin, and simply slit their throats from ear to ear. I would always watch, back then. Sometimes Steven would even make love to me afterwards, with them laying heavy in the mattress beside us, their blood seeping into the sheets and pooling in my hair.

But lately Steven seems to have lost track of our goal. It was only about the money and belongings at first - nothing personal; we dreamed of retiring young. Most of these men were older; most of them had more money than they knew what to do with. We wanted to get as much as we could and leave as quickly as we could. But it's been much longer than planned now and we haven't saved the money like we should have; we didn't leave when we should have. And now, Steven practically begs me to go out and get one – and I can't say there isn't a thrill in it for me, too. But I get nervous. And with the scenes Steven has been leaving behind lately, I know we're going to make a mistake. He always wants to hurt them now. He uses his knife, his hands; hell, sometimes he'll just use whatever he can find around the house. Lately, when we're leaving, I don't even recognize the man who had invited me in to his home in the first place. Sometimes it seems that there's nothing left but blood and meat on the floor.

So, when he asked me for this final one, I put on my best gown (my only one, picked out one warm summer evening with Steven at my side. I loved that night.) and went to the nicest bar that would let me in. It was a fancy one, but regardless, most people are there to buy drinks and get laid. And damn if I'm not good at finding the right person for the job every time. Steven tells me it's a special talent, and who am I to argue?

I remember every one of them. Maybe not the names, but the numbers at least. This one was to be the eleventh (not a nice, rounded number to end it on, sure, but neither of us were too broken up about it). His name was Chris. He wasn't married, and he had just moved into town on a promotion. I didn't ask his age, but I never do. He seemed lonely.

Over the next two weeks, I saw him three more times. I learned about his impressive career, and that he lived alone. I learned that the front door's buzzer never worked properly (despite how much he paid in condo fees, he would often remind me), and through observation, I learned there was no doorman and no cameras in the halls and doorways. Noticing these things had become second nature.

Sometimes we would carry on longer than this, sometimes we would try to get a better grasp on the situation. But Steven was persistent. So was I. I had never wanted to get it over with so quickly. I could already feel the sand between my toes somewhere far from here, and the waves in my hair as Steven lay me down on the beach, lips against mine.

So on our fourth night together, I asked Chris to bring me home with him before we had even gone for dinner. I made sure to leave the door unlocked, as per routine. I didn't have to do much, (pour us each a shot of whiskey, run my fingers down the buttons on the front of his shirt) before he was sliding his hand up my skirt and we were stumbling towards the bed together, his full weight pressing me down in to the sheets. Steven and I didn't communicate in any way during this time; but he never once showed up too early or too late. I would tell him that it's because of the connection he and I share, it wasn't like any other and it's why we worked so well together. He'd always laugh, but I could tell by the look he'd give me that he felt the same.

Chris was still on top of me, both hands wrapped tight around my tits and grunting, when I heard the crack and saw his eyes roll back into his head until there was nothing but white. Usually Steven would wait until we were done – sometimes he'd even watch. I pressed myself down into the bed and didn't say a word as Chris was ripped off of me and thrown like a bag of sand to the bedroom floor. Steven hardly even acknowledged that I was there, except to tell me to start gathering up the stuff.

I made my way to the living room and grabbed the duffel bag Steven had left near the front door, beginning the task of tossing in anything around that looked valuable, when I heard Chris coming to from somewhere behind me. I mostly ignored this part nowadays, but sometimes curiosity got the better of me – this is one of the times I wish it hadn't. The look he was giving me, from his position face down on the carpet in his own home, was one of concern at first – like he truly thought that this was a random act of violence. Like he thought that I was in danger, too; like Steven would be coming for me, next. And then, when Steven dropped to his knees next to him, and his knife began to plunge down in to Chris' shoulder blades – not once, or twice, but more times than I cared to count – upon noticing that I wasn't making a move to stop it, the look turned to one of pure betrayal. I wanted to reflect on this, on how someone who barely knew me thought he had trusted me enough in the first place to even feel betrayed, but the only thought in my mind was - too loud.

There was blood on the floor, and the doorway, and on Steven's hands and arms and chest (he would have to wear some of Chris' clean clothes on the way out); but Chris was crying out, and Steven was cursing at him – so by the time I heard the knocking at the front door, I figured the person had to have been there for longer than we'd have liked.

That was when her meek voice drifted in through the wood.

“Mister Palmer? It's Ellie, from security. I have some papers here for you to sign regarding... I'm sorry, but, is everything alright in there?”

Steven had his hand pressed around Chris' mouth, looking up at me with expectation. I could think of nothing to do but stand there, the half-full bag hanging heavy in my hands.

She tried the door handle.

“Sir, if you don't respond, I'm afraid I'll have to call the authorities... I believe I heard sounds of distress.”

She sounded nervous.

My feet felt like they had been encased in cement as I took the few steps towards the door, placing the bag down and smoothing my skirt with my palms out of nervous habit. Maybe I could flash her a smile, tell her that those weren't sounds of distress at all, give her a wink. She sounded young; maybe she'd blush, thrust the papers into my hands, and walk away. Maybe, when the police found Chris' body later, she wouldn't have even looked into my face long enough to give them a decent description.

There was a feeling of dread, knowing for certain now that this had gone on too long. I knew we should have retired long before this, had Steven only listened to me. And such a simple mistake. How did I not know that they would have security here?

So I opened the door, and we caught each others' eyes, but before I could get two words out Steven was pushing me aside and wrapping an arm around the back of her neck. She didn't even yell out; there was a gasp, maybe, and then Steven had already gotten his switchblade into her side twice before I had shut the door behind them. He threw her down to the ground and there was a firm thud as her forehead hit the carpet. He stormed back to the other room. He was mad.

...

I'm twelve years old and living in my parents house. It's a Friday night in October and my father and I are snuggled up under blankets playing one of our favorite video games. It's a scary one, which is perfect for the season, and it's late at night; the streets outside are empty and the lights are all turned off throughout the house. One of our favorite past times is playing scary games and watching scary movies. We have nerves of steel, the two of us.

This game in particular is about being stuck in an old abandoned house filled with zombies. The player gets to take control of a character who is tough and good at fighting off these monsters. My dad and I like to discuss how we would survive if we ever ended up in a situation like this. We like to think that we'd be just like the character--if not cooler, even. We could handle something like this, easy as pie.

After a while I decide it's time for some snacks. I unravel myself from the blankets and make my way to the kitchen in slippered feet, flicking on the light, which is bright enough to sting my eyes a little at first. I head toward the cupboard and suddenly freeze in my tracks. On the floor near the sink is the largest, blackest, most long-legged spider I have ever seen. I do the first thing that comes to my mind--when I finally gain control of my limbs again, that is.

I grab a paper towel off of the table next to me and throw it over the beast, screaming for my father. He comes barreling into the room. He catches a glimpse of the culprit before the towel flutters down over it. He screams. Spiders are his biggest fear.

Quick, quick! I yell back, urging him to do something about it before it scampers out from under the towel. I'm hopping from foot to foot like I'm standing on lava.

He frantically looks around, and then settles on the first weapon he can think of. In his hand he's clutching an empty soda bottle. He lunges forward and begins to bring the bottle down on top of the towel over, and over again; screaming a warrior's cry the entire time.

By the time he stops, my mother has made her way down the stairs from her bedroom on the second floor and into the kitchen. She has panic in her eyes.

We explain our peril to her but neither of us move to check under the paper towel. She's the daring one. She inches over and gingerly picks it up from the corner, peeking underneath. Suddenly, she's laughing so hard there are tears in her eyes and she stumbles down to a sitting position. She throws the towel off to the side.

On the floor is a smashed up plastic ring in the shape of a spider—a Halloween decoration my little sister had brought home from school earlier that day, my mother explains to us through gasps of laughter. We stare at her incredulously. My heart is still pounding.

My father and I: Zombie Hunters Extraordinaire.

The hallways were dark, save for a few worn down candles that flickered dully in their candelabras against the walls, when Ariel overheard Eric use the word black magic for the first time.

She was sitting against the wall next to her chamber's heavy wooden door, cracked open just enough to hear, but not see them. The sky outside her window was starless and black as pitch that night, and she knew that she should have been long asleep, but the ache in her newly acquired legs had been excruciating that day.

She had been restless in her bed, when the sound of footsteps and then the murmur of voices made their way down the stretch of hallway. She recognized one of the voices as Eric's immediately. The other man she had never heard before.

Ariel listened as they murmured to each other about the sea, and dark magic, and the girl (which she knew must be her), and Ariel was overcome with dread to think that Eric had somehow figured out what she was. That her legs were an abomination and that she had done the unthinkable to get them.

She only had one day left to achieve the true love Ursula had spoken of, before her legs would turn back into the fin she had acquired at birth, but being with Eric had proven to be completely different than what she had expected. He was distant and aloof mostly, and when she would catch him staring from across the room, she could swear that his eyes betrayed him – that he knew more about her than he was letting on.

Ariel climbed back into bed after they turned a corner down the hall and she was left alone, once again, in silence. With a heavy heart, she realized that she desperately longed for the cold currents and salty taste of her home in the sea. She missed her father and sisters and friends. And she resolved that, when her last day as a human was up and her legs turned to scales once again, she would wait on the warm sand of the beach and return to the fathoms below, where she belonged.

-

The next morning, when Ariel entered the main dining hall for breakfast with, she was surprised to see that Eric wasn't alone. Sitting with him was a woman and a man, the latter of whom she recognized as the other voice from the night before, once he spoke up and introduced himself. He presented himself as a 'proprietor of goods', but Ariel was too distracted by the smug smile and the shimmering eyes of the woman next to them. Those eyes had haunted her dreams ever since she had left the water.

They belonged to Ursula; although now they sat in the frame of a pale, two-legged beauty with cascading chestnut locks.

The strange man approached her and took her hand between his;

“Marvelous.” he said, with an airy sigh, “and you're sure she's what you say she is?”

Eric walked towards a large covered box, taller than he was, off to the side of the room.

He grabbed hold of the red velvet cover and looked towards them as he pulled it off with a swift jerk of his arm, sending it fluttering smoothly to the floor;

“I've seen it with my own eyes, back on the beach. Vanessa has seen it too.” he motioned towards the brown haired woman that Ariel knew was not named 'Vanessa'. Ursula offered him a pleasant smile.

'Oh yes. She is one of them. You've heard tales of the witches in the deep – they play the trickiest games. Her spell won't last much longer, I assure you.”

Before Ariel could react, two of Eric's guards were picking her up by her arms and legs, and carrying her effortlessly to the glass tank filled with water that Eric had revealed.

She tried to scream despite knowing she had no voice, and she fell with a splash into the full tank once the men let go of her. It was just deep enough for her to stand with her head above the salty water.

The guards placed a heavy fitted lid with holes in it over the top and replaced the velvet covering. Ariel could hear Eric and his guests leaving the room with talks of breakfast and shopping in the district while they waited for nightfall. Ariel kicked at the glass and pounded it with her fists with as much strength as she could muster, but the tank was built strong, and eventually she grew weak.

The others returned hours later – as had Ariel's tail. The transformation was more painful than the first time. She cried silently and alone in the tank afterwards, drained of all energy. Eric, and the man she now knew had paid a lot of money for her, had peeked under the blanket and stared at her fin in wonder. The last thing she heard before blacking out from fatigue had been Ursula's voice;

“Quite the site to behold, isn't it? Guaranteed to fill seats, I'm sure.”

-

Ariel awoke to the sound of, what at first she thought was thunder, but quickly realized was applause and excited chatter. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but she quickly realized that the tank she was in was now uncovered, and the sound was coming from the other side of a large, heavy looking black curtain that draped the space all in front of her.

As her eyes adjusted she began to notice other cages and tanks, and beings within them, surrounding her on all sides. To her left, there was a cage with the words The Beastly Prince! painted across a sign on the front; there was a monster inside two times her size, and it had sharp teeth and brown shaggy fur all over it's body, the tattered blue rags of a once princely garb clung to it here and there. On her right sat a glass box with a few odds and ends in it that made it look like a child's playroom. There was a rocking horse, a small chair to sit in, and a wooden doll that she soon realized was moving. She glanced at the sign attached to it, written in a childish font; The Dancing Wooden Boy!

Suddenly, the lights on the stage cracked to life, and the curtain in front of them began to raise up slowly. As it grew higher, the audience erupted into cheers and gasps of amazement. There were more people in the audience than Ariel had ever seen. The announcer on the stage, which she recognized as the man from Eric's castle, introduced the show's newest addition;

“Be careful with this one!” he cried, gesturing towards Ariel, “she may look innocent and pure, but will devour the heart of any man that draws too near!”

The other beings on stage looked disheartened and tired. She knew that this wasn't their first time as a spectacle; only hers. And something told her that it wouldn't be her last. She looked over the audience; the people she had so desperately dreamed of living among. She watched the way they screamed and laughed and pointed.

And then she noticed Eric and Ursula, or Vanessa, sitting in the front row, arms linked together. Eric's eyes moved across the stage in amazement, but Ursula stared right back at her.

“The Sea Witch!” Ariel heard the announcer cry over the applause of the audience.

Ursula winked at her with a smile.  

I never found out who took you from me--they were there and gone in an instant. To them, your death was nothing but an inconvenience; a smear of blood on their car's bumper. I've spent countless nights awake and staring at the ceiling with tear streaked cheeks, wondering how long you laid on that hot pavement, dying and alone. I pray that you went fast; I hope you didn't wonder where I was, why I wasn't there to help you. The house doesn't feel safe anymore; every creak of wood and gust of wind makes me wish I could still tuck my feet under your warm body, at the foot of the bed, and feel blanketed with companionship and love. To the one that took you from me, you were just an animal who got in their way on the road, but to me--you were the purest form of family, guardian, and friend that I'd ever known.