...I was shut up inside that doll of myself and my true voice could not get out. - Margaret Atwood

What am I living for and what am I dying for are the same question.

Murderess, murderess, he whispers to himself. It has an allure, a scent almost. Hothouse gardenias. Lurid, but also furtive. He imagines himself breathing it as he draws Grace towards him, pressing his mouth against her. Murderess. He applies it to her throat like a brand.

Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.