Evil is not born it is made

I don’t wanna know this feeling Unless it’s you and me I don’t wanna waste a moment And I don’t wanna give somebody else the better part of me I would rather wait for you

He likes to picture the sufferings I have endured. He listens to all of it like a child listening to a fairy tale. I must confess that it reminds me of you, Dr. Jordan. You were as eager as Mr. Walsh to hear about my sufferings in life. Your cheeks would flush, and if you’d had ears like a dog, they would have been pricked forward with your eyes shining and your tongue hanging out, as if you’d found a grouse in a bush. And as with Mr. Walsh, I may have changed some of the details of my stories to suit what I thought you wanted to hear.

All the same, murderess is a strong word to have attached to you. It has a smell to it, that word, musky and oppressive, like dead flowers in a vase. Sometimes at night I whisper it over to myself. Murderess, murderess. It rustles like a taffeta skirt across the floor. Murderer is merely brutal, it’s like a hammer, or a lump of metal.

                  I’d rather be a murderess than a murderer, if those were the only choices.