Just off in the distance, a car idles on the side of a desolate dirt road—its driver’s door open. The radio is on, but the tune and lyrics of a familiar song are mostly drowned out by static. The signal is faint, like the lingering warmth on your skin after someone lets go of your hand. If you listen closely, you can hear Patsy Cline singing Crazy.

Crazy—the only word I have to describe this… feeling. This urge. This terrible instinct. The words to the song are on the tip of my tongue, just out of reach. But they’re there. And they’re so close. Just. Like. You.

You're so close. So ******* close. As I pull my knife from between his ribs, I can't help but feel a little sad. Not because I killed him, but because I was expecting a fight. Oh, boys and girls—the fighters are my favorites. How I love to watch them throw things, curse me, and try their best to stop me. It really gets my blood pumping. Fuels my bloodlust.

There was a time—right after she escaped—I could smell her fear saturating the air. But I must have just missed her. She knew I was coming. It couldn’t have been easy breaking free from the ****** bin, but have you ever seen a rat caught in a glue trap? The ******* will gnaw their limbs off to get away. Oh, the price we pay for our insolence.

The wind carried that sweet, metallic scent across the ditch and back into the vehicle where I sat, staring at the picture of you on his dashboard. What a beautiful token. The two of you look so happy together. So unapologetically free and alive.

I didn’t come out to the middle of *******, USA, for him—that I promise. But once again, you had flown the coop. He was, for the most part, a consolation prize. It’s you I crave. Your scream. Your eyes widening like saucers as I kick your ******* door in and watch you tremble in the corner, shouting my name, begging me to stop. Pleading. Cursing.

But before I can savor the payoff, I’m pulled back to reality by the loud hum of an engine behind me and bright headlights gleaming in the rearview mirror.

"Hey, hey, man. Whatcha doin’ out here? You good?" the driver calls from inside his truck.

"Oh, I’m fine," I say, tucking my 9mm into my waistband. "Just a little lost, is all."

"I can help you find your way to town if ya’d like," he offers, stepping out of his truck. He walks toward me, cautiously, uncertain.

A grin creeps across my face as that terrible instinct floods my veins, narrowing my vision.

Maybe it’s the addition of his vehicle in my vicinity, or maybe the car antenna finally pulls a stronger signal, but the song comes through the radio, clear and free of static.

"I'm crazy for trying, and crazy for crying..."

"…and crazy for loving you."