I remember waking up on my eighteenth birthday and running to the mirror. I cried when I saw the same ugly shade of brown. Boring brown. Unchanging brown.

My mother held me while I cried into the phone, telling my lover he wasn’t The One; he couldn’t be.

 

As a child, birthdays were the most exciting event I could imagine. Waking up and looking in the mirror to see something new. When I turned five, my eyes turned violet. On my tenth birthday my skin was lighter than it had ever been. When I turned seventeen, my hair turned to a darker shade of brown.

That was years ago; I lost count somewhere around year thirty. Nothing has changed since then. It can’t change. Not until I find him. I thought I found him years ago. We met not long after my birthday, and we spent a long, glorious year together. We bought a little apartment in the country, got a dog named Winston, and he proposed after nearly a year; I was sure he was The One. A month later, I realized what day it was. Another birthday passed, and all I had was brown hair. I really thought he was The One, but I left that day. It couldn’t work.

 

I ventured outside. A yellow hat pulled over my ears, my hair was not visible. Around me, couples walked together and talked about their plans for the weekend. One couple skipped past me and knocked me to the side; they were totally unaware of the world around them. Infatuation seemed to have that effect.

A feeling of ire grew within me as I counted golden heads. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three..

 

The day my youngest sister turned eighteen, I knew it was all over. She ran down the stairway, tears streaming down her smiling face as she showed off her new golden hair. No longer did I have a simple, brown-headed sister. In front of me stood an adult, radiating love and excitement. Ezra was her soulmate. They always said they were meant to be, but I had my doubts; however, they were right. My baby sister had grown up before my eyes. She would continue to age while I remained alone with no one but Winston, who had begun to show signs of declining.

 

I think about her often. Watching her move forward in life with her husband and children was difficult. She is long gone now; so is the rest of my family. Her great-grandchildren try to contact me every year around the holidays, but I don’t answer the phone. I don’t need their pity.

 

Carson was the hardest to let go. I still think of him sometimes even though I saw in the paper that he got married years ago. He looked so much happier in his wedding pictures than he ever did when we were together; it would make sense, I suppose, since we weren’t meant to be together.

 

I walked faster as I approached the capitol. Happy couples seemed to favor this location over most others; it had a water fountain and a park with captivating floral landscaping arranged in distinct patterns of hearts. A wedding ceremony was taking place under the willow tree; this was also a common happening. Girls rushed to the courthouse on their eighteenth birthday to reserve the willow tree, golden hair bouncing on their shoulders as they gushed to the secretary about their soulmate.

As I traveled, my vexation progressively increased every time a couple mindlessly stared into each other’s eyes, running into me in the process; they didn’t even notice the only person walking alone in the park. The only person wearing a hat, ashamed to show off her hair.

Suddenly, a young girl ran around the corner. She wore a purple frock that twisted around her ankles as she carelessly bounded through the tall grass. Her dull brown hair fell in intricate braids down her back. She didn’t yet have a water tattoo on her ankle. Only fourteen years old.

Prattling to her mother about how beautiful she thought love was, she didn’t see me in front of her. The moment of impact was all it took for me to lose it. I shoved her to the side, and I stormed to the other side of the park, ignoring the child’s cries and her mother’s furious shouts.

I wasn’t going to do it that day. It had only been a week since the last incident; the time between them grew shorter every time.

I tugged my hat further down my head as I rushed to the path the led behind the capitol building. I flipped open the small knife I kept in my pocket, gripping the handle with my sweaty, trembling hand. I saw them: a new couple, huddled against the wall, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears and rubbing their noses together. Disgusting.

They had only been together for a month or so; I knew because I remembered the day they decided this alley would be “their spot.” I could no longer enjoy the empty backstreet as my place of solace; they took that away from me.

The man suspiciously studied me as I approached; the girl pulled herself behind him as she observed the look in my eyes. I tightened my grip. Suddenly I was running and they were shrieking and scrambling in the opposite direction. I laughed as they realized yelling wouldn’t save them this time; no one would hear their cries for help.

 

As I looked down at the mess in front of me, the same thoughts that crossed my mind last time were swimming through my head: what now? However, the feeling of euphoria far outweighed the questions I had. My body was electricity; I felt energy pulsating through my veins.

Suddenly, Everett casually walked around the corner; he always knew the perfect time to show up. He looked me in the eyes, looked down at the couple crumpled on the road in front of me, and quickly went to work. He meticulously gathered the limp bodies and placed them in a large black bag. I wondered how he knew to bring one. Maybe he always kept one with him. He disappeared around the corner, heading toward the dark side of town with the bag thrown over his shoulder. He never told me where he took them.

I walked back to my home then, reminiscing the feeling of exhilaration that flowed through every inch of my body as I watched the love die out of the couple’s eyes. They didn’t deserve love. They had a family and friends to keep them company. Why should they, who had everything, deserve love more than myself, who had nothing? The answer was simple: they shouldn’t.

 

I met Everett a few months ago. He was scared then; he ran away from home after girl number three. Third time’s a charm, right? He told me stories of Jessica, the woman he just knew was The One. They completed each other. He was about to propose when she came to him with tears rolling down her face; he knew then that they would never be able to stay together. Her birthday passed, and their love passed away with it.

We bonded through tales of heartbreak and misery; it really sounded funnier now that so much time had passed, really, and we laughed at our heartache together. We became best friends.

I don’t know what was different the day I first snapped. All I remembered later was the rush it gave me to take out some of the love in the world. If I couldn’t have love, neither could they. Everett understood this, and he helped hide the evidence without questioning anything. From that day on, we continued to self-medicate ourselves with the exquisite extermination of lovers around us.

 

When I returned home, Everett was waiting inside the doorway; he must not have gone far. We talked for a little while about our days. Everett had gone grocery shopping before we met up in the alley. He saw Kenny, a friend of ours, while he was out; Kenny said to tell me hello.

We no longer discussed our past lovers; we agreed not to bring them up ever again. I knew he was still grieving his loss. He had become my best friend the last few months. No one else understood my hatred of intimacy the way he did. I knew I would never find someone who could dispose of dead bodies and still trust me the way Everett did; he was my best friend, and I knew I would have him forever. I knew. We swore off love. We decided never to seek it again. All we needed was ourselves and the feeling of satisfaction that appeared after a kill. We understood that this decision meant an eternity on earth without ever aging again. I could live with this dirty, boring, brown hair.

 

Everett stayed the night that night; he didn’t feel safe walking home after the day’s events. He still felt queasy. That’s why I managed to get the fun part while he only cleaned up the mess afterward.

 

I woke up the next morning and began my usual routine: stumble to the bathroom, shower, wash my face. I felt different as I showered. Maybe the thrill of the kill was already wearing off. I shuddered as I imagined how much worse the addiction would become as I became more difficult to satisfy.

I stepped onto the rug in front of the sink and wiped the fog off of the glass, and I screamed when I saw the blonde woman staring back at me in the mirror.