I stabbed the knife through my latest victim’s heart, a stream of blood whistling through the air and landing on my cheek.

Wiping the blood off of my cheek with my thumb, I looked down at the corpse in front of me.

He was a middle aged man in his 50s, his hair was peppered with specks of gray, and his arm was adorned with a Rolex watch.

He also was a family man; his kids were in high school.

“They won’t miss him,” I whispered aloud, scaring myself by the way my words warped and twisted into something I’d never thought I’d say in a million years.

Looking down at the knife in my hands I dropped it suddenly, my stomach lurching as I fought the bile rising in my throat.

“You did the right thing. You did your job.” I didn’t know whose voice it was—mine or the anger inside of me.

I clenched my long, black hair and dropped to my knees. The blurred memories of what he did to me flashed before my eyes.

My first corpse was Mister Tomas Smith, and I was his maid.

Until I caught him alone and drunk one day, he shoved me down, and called me every racial slur he could think of.

“Do your job you filthy pig!” He bit out as he slapped me, my blood splattering on the ground.

It was a Tuesday—trash day.

So now, I did my job. Cleaning the world of one bad apple at a time, but this time, no one gave me any tips for it.

Oh well, at least no one could say I didn’t do my job.