The subdued light of my apartment living room bathes the room in an almost dreamlike atmosphere. My black stiletto heels, polished and sharp as blades, stand mercilessly against the ground. I stand, wrapped in my fur coat, a picture of grace and luxury.
Suddenly, my eyes catch the discreet movement of the cockroaches. Small, disgusting, with their shells glistening in the dim light, they try to make their way across the ground, desperately seeking shelter. But there are none. They are in my domain, subject to my will.
I advance slowly, each measured step amplifying the terrifying suspense. The cockroaches seem to perceive the impending shadow of their destiny. They disperse in a panicked movement, but it is futile. I am the predator, they are the prey.
With a cold smile, I target the first cockroach. My heel rises, suspended for a moment in a macabre dance, before coming down with surgical precision. The crack is sharp, a sound that echoes eerily in the silence of the room. Beneath my heel, the creature is reduced to a shapeless mass, a fleeting memory of what it once was.
I move on to the next one, relishing in their terror. Each of my steps is a death sentence, an irrevocable sentence. One after another, I crush them, feeling under the soles of my heels the resistance then the yielding of their fragile bodies.
Their attempts to escape are pathetic, a grotesque spectacle of nature in the face of relentless force. They run, they sneak, but each time they meet the same merciless fate under my heels.
In the end, only red spots remain on the ground, silent witnesses of the domination exercised. My heart beats hard, not from fear, but from a dark, unspeakable excitement. In my living room, I am the undisputed queen, a cruel goddess who rules over a small universe of terror.
I stand back, admiring my work. The crushed corpses of the cockroaches lie scattered like pieces of a morbid puzzle. In this moment, I feel alive, powerful, mastering the cycle of life and death under the tips of my heels.