【by Maggie Ondrey】

I am going to tell you how to do something that is delicious. But before I tell you, you have to understand he deserved it. You have to understand that he took her from me and I had no choice. I don’t care about his prospects, I don’t care that he could change, I don’t care that it’s going to hurt. It wasn’t easy and I’m proud of myself for that. Do you really think after what I had with her I would ever want to do what I did to him? Bedding a man is hard enough when you never had an interest in them to start, let alone after they’ve killed your girlfriend.  Before I put myself into the earth with her, I’ll tell you how to kill a man with help from your pet spider.

For this to work, he had to think I really wanted him. Like, I’m no longer into girls and it’s all because of him level of want. He has to feel special, lusted, worshiped. When I spoke to my arachnid she told me it had to be done one way. I trust her, she would never steer me wrong.  There was so much urgency in her ticks, the gestation of her spiderlings was almost through; her gutted mate across the cage. Pay attention! She told me. And now I’ll tell you, so dearest reader, this is how you kill him if you need to. 

Part One: Stick him in your web

Bump into him in the hallway, you haven’t been in school for awhile. You have almost forgotten how the edges shine and you can hear little legs above your head. He smells of pine and cat piss, that is what you will think because that is what all men like him smell like. He will seem bothered at first, but then he will find it much easier to humiliate you by playing it cool. You will wish you could tie his eyebrow piercing to a fast moving creature, something like an elk and then watch the roofing of his face peel away. He will never know any of this, because you will build a rapport with him that feels so grassroots. It will grow like a dirt-veined carrot, its tip will grow nubs that look like lightning bolts. He will want to pull it out of the ground and take a bite. The whispers of the little legs are so loud, but don’t let them distract you as you memorize his schedule; the paths he takes and the ones he doesn’t. The coincidence of seeing him so frequently is something he will not hesitate to take as hangout-worthy. 

You will be thrilled to open your spindley friend’s cage and offer your hand to her lovely fuzzed legs and in a song voice tell her you go over there tomorrow. Your friend will screech in joy, eyes containing a childlike fixation. The babies are ready, is what she will squeak, and you place them into a glass jar. It’s from the Goodwill, probably the best place for things like this. Bought on green sticker day it was half off. The babies will be like a trickle of water poured slowly into the jar. They are like underdeveloped grapes with their bodies so bulbous and shiny. Like a crochet square they will hang onto each other and squeal as they fill the dense glass. Place the jar in front of their mother, she is a mother after all, of course she will give a doleful farewell. She will tap her front legs onto the glass and tell them to eat well. Lift the jar into your bag that you have slung over your body and lay it so gently into the bottom. 

Once you’re there he will pretend to show you around his house. It’s so cookiecutter you could pinch the railing and break it off to eat it. The fire is popping or maybe screaming, either way it is a grey flame that shoots up an occasional metallic color like pink or blue. It’s like a gas station puddle that hisses. There will be rabbits everywhere, they are alarmingly large—perhaps they are hares. The hares will contort their bodies and bare their bright orange speckled teeth as he walks from room to room. The rooms are named for their colors; a blue room, a yellow room. I bet if you are doing this he will have these rooms too. Imagine his house is like a container of neapolitan ice cream, and this will save you from boredom as you enter the red room; imagine each room you enter is a section of the scoop you are slowly pulling towards your body. He will have the tour so well-prepared that even if his room is on the first floor and you’ve already seen it two minutes into the tour; it will still end there.  

Part Two: Fill him up

Stroke his ego with your jagged cuticle fingers. Do not think about who you are doing this for, unless it makes this part easier. I for one could not think of Doe, or else I might have thrown up. She is who I did this for, he deserved it, I swear. I have no regrets about my decision, it was a marvelous night. He will be broken open in two days, they will shed him like a shell and open him like a flower. He will be confused and alone, just like her when he got her that night. His body will be violated and destroyed just like he did away with hers. But you cannot get distracted by the ones you love. Imagine you’re playing the piano and he cares, really cares, if you have to. Imagine you like boys and he sees you’re more than a girl but a girl that can play the piano. Show him that girls can be cool, imagine the craft of your hands isn’t holy only when it’s your spit that congeals between the gaps in your cylinder-cupped hands. Pretend that when you do that, you are spitting on his grave. Let him tell you your eyes look pretty but don’t argue when he tells you they are a different color than they actually are. 

When you have gotten him to maximum vulnerability, web the spiderlings between his thighs and watch the egg white sacs blend with the rest of his bodily fluid. You need to give the spiders a minute to make their way into him, so shower him in affectionate, infectious words and tell yourself after each word that he will die. Wonderful.

Don’t allow yourself to feel guilty, don’t allow yourself to feel judged, don’t overthink that act. It will be worth it I swear, and remember he didn’t feel guilty when he forced her. He didn’t think about the consequences when he buried her and didn’t even cover her up. She was everything, everything to me.  

Part Three: Sell it hard 

 Now that it’s done he can roll onto his stomach and pat the space next to him—you are wooed. Wiggle your body up the bed in an army crawl upon the space he is letting you reside.  Allow your body to fall into the cavity with just enough disturbance to seem playful, but not heavy. The comforter he lays on is a heathered navy, most likely from a pottery barn, as the top sheet and fitted below match the light heather to create some contrast. There is a pleated headboard that frames the bed, a suede navy that agrees with the rest of the horrible color palette that drags the room into desolate darkness. Not only is he a woman-killing asshole, he has godawful taste in home decor. It looks like a hermetic cave, the ones you would learn about in class somewhere in Egypt. They did it for religious reasons, dragged themselves into dusted darkness. He, on the other hand, most likely wouldn’t want light to enter his room because even a slit of light picks up a fog of dust. Maybe if you never touched him he would die from asphyxiation and lay in his sweet vomit. This is far more rewarding, though. 

You can wish for a moment, and you wish that he could die in this room so that light would never touch his skin again. But the babies will need light for when they exit his body in a few days. It will be a wonderful birth, they are still small larvae like spiderlings and they will thrive on his body and grow into the most wondrous creatures. He will wake in two days, and feel a stirring in his body. It will be like a mummer that you hear in the walls at night, then he will feel electric. Like someone has placed a cup under a soda machine and pressed every single flavor, his body will be overwhelmed and overflowing by the static. Then, like the opening of a flower, they will crack him open, most likely through the stomach. And with the wondrous celebration his body will give his honey colored stomach and pink sapphire intestine the chance to touch the air. The spiders will exit the crater and he will be alive to see it. Then he will die.   

Don’t get caught up, though. He needs to feel like he has the power but doesn’t have to use it. It could jeopardize everything if he catches on, he already shot you that strange look when you cracked a smile to the centipede that swam over your clothes in the corner. Let him take out his phone. He will pretend to ask you if it’s okay—like you could say no. You can’t leave yet. Even though you want to so badly, you have to make sure he doesn’t suspect a thing. She died not knowing, and he will too. Watch him glide his poorly-trimmed fingertips across the pixeled glow, give reassurance to your eyes that they can fix onto a cluster of colors just for a moment. His nail beds are an ombre pink and white—can you see her skin under his nails? 

Don’t think about that. Just pretend his phone is interesting, it’s like a sensory toy. A vine of deep shiny purples and shrieking oranges, the yellows are settling. They demand attention, beg your eyes not to lift as they add creamer to your coffee, as they let you stretch your hands into warmer hands or rub your face with your jackfruit tinted towel—or bury your head in her golden-threaded hair. He is just scrolling, you can pretend his shoulder is hers for a bit and really sell it. 

She would find this marvelous. She would have done the same. She would have most likely used praying mantises. When he took her down, he took hers with her. They usually go for the heads as well, and you really want him to see it; she was always the kinder of the two of you. The spindly green creatures are quick to kill their prey, whereas spiders enjoy taking their time.    

 He presents baby photos, these must take precedent. You must care, really care but to make him think you care is easy, as women to him love babies, all women. His shallow understanding of your humanity gives you convenience with the oos and aws, your stomach jumps with excitement as he lays the words You have to see this one, I was such a little trouble maker in that spider man t-shirt. Oh, I believe it, you must say, make him feel understood and original because it’s not like every child ever is a troublemaker. You are the second sex, he is the norm and you are the subject. He is special, you are a trailblazer.  No! You can’t seem bitter or sarcastic—ask him why spiderman. Tell him that’s so cute, and think that you can’t wait for the spiderlings to take him. He is oblivious to the world around him, no need to pay attention when he takes a deep inhale in as the spiders make their way. He is a host now; maybe he’s a spiderman? You will watch the light of moving cars flash a series of red and cream colors into the dark room. It catches a figure on the wall. It’s time to go. 

It’s what she would want, she would want you to string him along. To catch him up in your web with your unshaven legs and gangly limbs and watch as he gets himself more and more stuck. To look at him with your bug-like eyes taking in every angle of the room and him. 

The plan has been set into motion, now all you have to do is wait. Then after it’s done you can rest with Doe. She would have laughed about the phone scrolling and how ugly he was as a baby, she would have nuzzled her head into the space between your shoulder and your neck and let your body take in the laugh. You would absorb the laugh and plot his death together. But she’s not here, he took her life in a messy, lazy, and idiotic way. He has no idea how good you are. How calculated you and your pretty spider can be. He doesn’t know who you are, that the girl he killed—you’re her lover.

Part Four: Meet up with your friends

You clothe yourself and watch the thing on the wall watch you. The retina in the back of its eye absorbs the dark to create a film that swims silver with specks of lavender. Your clothes are different from the ones you wore to his house. You whisper thank you to the centipede and the boy replies you’re welcome. Walk downstairs and break off a piece of the railing, put it into your mouth and let the spice of gingerbread warm your mouth. It’s far better than boy. 

Leave his house, you’ve done your part and now they will help with the rest. You swing your bag over your shoulder and leave his gingerbread house. Imagine yourself above your body, a puppeteer taking a break to swipe your crimson painted nails into the yellow pastel frosting and sticking it into your mouth. He will see you leaving from your window and think you’re smiling because of the time he gave you. He’s an idiot. Take your hair out of the elastic he put it up in, feel the coat of sweat on the back of your neck as you do it.  

Be woefully aware of your green-soled white sneakers on the wet, black, reflective tar. Let the October day mist off the surrounding sidewalks, no need to walk on those! There is not a car in sight. The cars are gone, there is no one just you. Your plan has been done in perfect desolate cover. The overhanging street lamps whine with strain as your feet pick up and kick smaller rocks that you can’t see but feel. Maybe they aren’t rocks, maybe they’re baby spiders coming to find a host just like yours. Maybe they’re gemstones as the lamps rain light onto the pavement. They sparkle and pfft out as you kick them. Maybe the stars have fallen onto the earth. Look up at the sky, it’s like flour spilled over a dark granite countertop. 

The sound of trees breaking will catch your attention. The forest looks like a tide pool at high tide, everything is being pushed forward. The emerald pines let out a squall as beautiful bugs make their way to the house. You watch mammoth-sized cicadas barrel down the trees and land onto his gingerbread house. Their green orbs hit the moonlight and shoot beams into the night sky. They hum as you move your lips to your mouth, their lovely pink bodies lay like bows on top of his house. They shine in the moonlight, and the three of them point their faces to the orb and screech. 

 Large bumble bees earnestly fly towards the house as well. They are dying as fall comes but they will be martyrs for your cause. Their fuzzy bodies look like they are covered in spikes in the underlighting as they move with intent. One of them has spray painted grey flames on the side and then spits out the same flames. He will wake up to a dry mouth and in a sweat. He will be surrounded by large bugs and small ones coming out of his body. Music will play, suddenly there will be crickets right beside you. The bodies of the quartet look like leather and one of them plays the banjo. Throw your hand up Breakfast Club style and high five the crickets singing you home. Wink at the moths as you pass the whiny lamps—they know what you’re up to. You’re a queen of bugs. 

Take a swig from a glacier cherry gatorade. It’s a bit flat and warm but it feels good as it crawls to the back of your throat. She loved those, and you are so full of man you want to be full of her. As you wipe your mouth with the cuff of your sleeve, open your door and slide into the entryway, see your friends on the table and feel the warm gatorade in your stomach become warmer. They are smiling if they could, I swear they are. The entryway is covered in tulips and tiffany lamps and it smells of patchouli. Who knew bugs could be so good at home decorating? 

Your lovely spider sits front and center. She has changed out her blue satin bow for an iridescent white as it brings out her fluff that lines her eight legs. It has a pink lace trim. She looks beautiful. It’s a special night, lovely spider knows this. She brings her front two legs up along with her mandibles and claps them as a greeting. You stroke her body just as you imagined taking up the frosting from the gingerbread boy’s house. Set your keys on the counter  and watch them fall into a black hole. Spin around on the hardwood floor, socks still on to say they’ll hatch in a few days. She clicks her pinchers in excitement and climbs into your hands, each step feeling like a snowflake falling. I’m sure we can visit them, they’re your babies after all. 

Good luck to all of those who end up needing my guide. My lovely spider will be there for all of those who need. She has friends in high places like giant cicadas and bumble bees. The crickets are very busy, they are always touring. If you sit them down though, with a cup of peppermint lemon tea, they shouldn’t be able to say no. I have not tried this with a praying mantis but I feel quite certain it would work. I just prefer to kill him slowly, unforgivably. Before I go I will say one last thing: thank you to the boy who took my girl from me, you will serve as a splendid host for a mother and her babies.