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Test “Maybe, I’ll do it next time. Tomorrow.” My husband playfully answered as I asked him to change the movie selection since it was too gruesome for me. I almost vomited at the scene where the serial killer stabbed his wife to keep the farm and their son to himself. Right after our dinner, I tried joining him in watching Zak Hilditch’s “1922.” Never in my whole life that I liked the idea of watching horror flicks. Since, I could never bear how the killer would kill someone for their own personal gain and continue their lives as if nothing happened. Putting away no traces. Putting other lives at risk. I was disgusted by the sight of them, the gushing blood from their bodies after being cut, stabbed, broken, or wounded. Except for tonight, I had all the energy to keep up with him, but, sometimes, the occurrences in the movie would get so violent and intolerable. The 1-hour and 41-minute flick would not hurt since it would make him happy. He gave me a kiss on my left cheek as we cuddled in our bed while paying attention to the film until we fell into deep slumber. On the contrary, for my husband, this was all normal. He would routinely watch tons of series, movies, and documentaries and sleep peacefully at night. Sometimes, he would undergo somniloquy when a scene would bother him from time after time. The obsession would go beyond where he bought expensive and sharp weapons, hang it in his collections, and explain that it would be beneficial for the both of us, in case of any assault emergencies. Yesterday, he received a discreet parcel containing the “Spearpoint Lace Knife,” a hand-graved blade that could serve as a collectible and also good for stabbing. He even taught me on how to defend myself in an event where I would be caught in an onslaught incident, but I was inattentive. I woke up as I heard him saying something inaudible. I got up, reached for the gray lampshade on his side to turn it on. “Tomorrow will be a good time. Can you help me?” I heard him mumble some words. I thought he was talking to me; I moved his cheek to check if he was awake, but his eyes were still closed. The sweat on his face down to his chest was quickly gushing through his thin gray t-shirt. I had second thoughts if I would wake him up or not. “If I had a chance of killing her, I would.” Who would he be killing? Another woman? His rival at work? Did the scene from “1922” make him disconcerted? “I will go to her house at 8:30. How about you? What? No! We will not leave any traces. This will be fast. No worries.” I got fidgety after hearing those words from him. Was this only a dream or was he actually planning on killing someone? He eventually stopped and resumed his sleep, and so did I. The next day, I was about to start off the day in conversing him about last night, but when I was about to open my mouth, he put something inside of it instead. He took me from behind, applied the aggression he learned and practiced from the documentaries, stomach-turning yet full of arousals. Then, I decided to forget about what I was supposed to say and rather thought of his mystifying sexual indulgences despite his personal gore fascinations. After we felt the strange absorption of heaven, we went our separate ways. After work, I immediately went home. While taking shower, he called and told me that he could not make it to dinner since he was about to meet a client. I told him that I would be fine by myself since I would be sleeping afterwards. It was past 8 o’clock when I heard three continuous knocks from our door. When I opened it, I saw a shadow of a familiar figure. It was my husband, weeping, as if losing his favorite toy. I was about to ask what happened, but as soon as I reached for him, I saw small yet visible love bites on his neck that I did not place earlier. “I’m sorry. I need to test its sharpness.” Then, I felt the blood gushing down my fitting gray lace nightgown. I heard him mutter some words before I completely closed my eyes. “Maybe, I’ll do this again next time. Tomorrow. After you.”