I am this perfect housewife, the one that everyone admires. Every morning, I make sure I am impeccable, down to the last perfectly aligned eyelash. My long hair cascades over my shoulders, and my makeup always lives up to my expectations. But what no one knows is that behind this soft and loving facade hides a dark and unconfessed pleasure.
Every day, I take care of my children with the greatest delicacy. Julie, my little eight-year-old princess, and Thomas, my six-year-old boy, are my treasures. When they are there, I am the model mother, attentive, smiling. But once the door of the house closes behind them, something changes. I transform.
The ants come back every year, like an old habit that I can't shake. They sneak into the rooms, climb along the baseboards, invade the cracks in the kitchen tiles. But I don't complain. It's like a date. A thrill of anticipation runs through my body every time I see a line of these little black creatures crossing my immaculate space.
When the house is silent, empty, and my children are at school, I go to my room and open my closet. A collection of stilettos stretches out before me. Red, black, patent or matte. Some have heels so high they seem almost indecent. I always choose carefully. Today, it will be the red, shiny stiletto boots, the ones that reach almost to my knee. Just putting them on makes me feel excited.
I wander around the house, letting my heels echo on the parquet floor. Then I stop near the kitchen. They are there, dozens, maybe hundreds. My lips stretch into a thin, almost sadistic voice. They don't know what awaits them. I take a deep breath and begin. Slowly, methodically, I lower my heels onto them, one by one. The crunching of their tiny bodies under my soles gives me a strange satisfaction, a feeling of absolute control. I watch them wriggle, twist, then freeze. It’s a ritual, a dance in which I am the only mistress.
My children will never know. To them, I am their sweet mother, always smiling, who makes them snacks and reads them stories at night before they go to sleep. But there is this part of me that they will never discover. It is not rage that I feel towards these ants, but an intense, almost carnal pleasure, to see life die out beneath my feet.
I remember one day when Thomas came home earlier than expected. I hadn’t had time to change. He found me in the kitchen, my boots still on, the red of my lips as bright as that of my heels. “Mom, what are you doing?” he asked, his eyes wide. My heart pounded, but I just smiled at him and crouched down to hug him. “Nothing, honey. Just cleaning up a bit.”
He didn’t see anything, of course. How could he? I quickly crushed the last ant with the tip of my heel, before pulling him up. His gaze wandered to my boots, but he didn’t say anything. I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Maybe one day he’ll understand, but for now, I want him to keep this image of me, the sweet, loving mother.
That evening, I sat in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection. My skin was smooth, my makeup perfect. My lips, a bright red, seemed almost unreal. I ran a hand through my hair, smoothing it gently. Behind this impeccable facade, there is something that no one can see. Someone has chosen that makes me shudder just thinking about it.
I feel powerful when I crush these little creatures under my feet. As if, for a moment, the whole world belongs to me. This house is my kingdom, and I alone decide what can live there. The ants, they are my toys, the silent victims of my impulses. I track them, observe them, then I crush them without remorse.
And when my children come home, I become that perfect woman again, the mother who awaits them with a radiant smile. But inside, something burns, something that demands again and again this forbidden pleasure.
So, every morning, I send them to school with sweet kisses and tender words. And every afternoon, I wait for them patiently, my boots carefully put away, my secrets well hidden.