Samantha had the world. Everyone knew who she was, what she did, what she liked--every single aspect of her life, which was public knowledge. When her birthday was. Her relatives. Her friends. Where she ate. What movies she liked. Her choice of music. What designers she preferred. What time she went to bed. The meds she took.

The perfect life. The perfect girl.

She was gorgeous--a Hollywood stereotype that you so often saw on the big screen in moves like Sex and the City, or something like that: voluminous platinum-blonde hair, giant blue eyes, full red lips, a body that would make anyone fall to their knees. Along with her physical attributes, she had items that were just as appealing as she was to match. The mansion estate. The Corvette. The Vivienne Westwood attire. A perfect staff to man her home.

The perfect girl. The perfect life.

Her career and criteria were things to envy. An actress. A singer. A model. An author. A designer. A photographer. Next, the president.

The perfect girl. The perfect life.

Stamina. Stamina definitely helped. Confidence. Bravery. Trust worthiness. Defiance. Kindness. Stubborn. Sweet.

The perfect person.

A bitch. Female dog.

The perfect girl. The perfect life.

She had a fine set of steak knives. Imported from Spain. Stainless steel. Given to her by her ex boyfriend as a break-up gift. He thought it was sweet (He was also an idiot, and didn’t get the right gifts for the right occasions. He had bought her a winter coat for her birthday in the summer once.) Her favorite happened to be the big butcher knife.

Big like her ego.

The perfect girl. The perfect life.

Her ex?

Break-up gift?

Butcher?

The perfect murder. The perfect knife.