There are little things you do because you don’t know how to hide your guilt. I see right through you. I watch you and wait for something to break and give, and I wonder if it ever will. Your little rituals for placating someone who doesn’t yet realise you have a knife in their back. Your little dance of self pity, a sleight of hand trick to disguise the bigger crime you’re in the act of committing. Oh, you are the perfect performer. You are a method actor of deceit. You really make people believe your gestures and gesticulations, and sometimes I wonder if you fool yourself too. And when the crocodile tears run down your face, and when you confide that you feel you can no longer stand the stress, I smile like a crocodile, and act the perfect picture of understanding while I plot my perfect execution. We are not so dissimilar. I am teeth and smiles. I will hunt you down and make you pay.