Crouched in the back corner of the yard, nestled in between lawn mowers and stacks of dry wood, she pinched ants off of the hot cement, dropping their wriggling bodies into spider’s nests. The disgusting little creatures terrified her, eliciting a repulsive feminine shriek whenever startled, generally resulting in swift and satiated crushing.
Watching the helpless ant writhe and twist, attempting to escape the sticky coffin, feeling that intense sense of power that came with the most exhilarating adrenaline rush was fantastic. This was her secret. Her badness. Knowing it was wrong, knowing she would be punished if found out, made it that much more thrilling.
Decades later, visiting her family’s home for a summer barbecue, that corner of the yard makes her heart race; that familiar thud deep inside her chest, the feeling of anxious intoxication. She never got past killing ants, no later signs of disturbance present.
It was just the one. Just that one time…