He liked to believe this was normal. Maybe so he could justify himself in his own mind. Yet he knew this was abnormal and strange. No one was compelled to do these things if they weren’t insane, he knew this was true. Yet they didn’t understand him. They couldn’t see past the thick framed glasses and the goofy smile. Since he couldn’t do romantic he had decided a long time ago he could do creepy.
He loved the look of horror on Sarah-Louise’s face when he had butchered her precious cat. That pretentious wench never insulted his shabby clothes again. He had enjoyed the look on Yasmina Davies face when she had found that her three dogs were hanging from trees with their entrails spilled upon the ground.
He enjoyed the fact that he had power over them, he adored that it twitched and clawed at their minds until they couldn’t take it any longer. It gave them just a taste of the horror he had to live through each and every day.
His father was a drunk butcher with a temper, he had killed Kim’s mother in a drunken rage involving a knife and sheer force then buried her in the backyard like a dog.
Kim killed his father that day and buried him in the backyard, taking precious care not to preserve any dignity when he smashed the old man’s face in with a shovel. The taste of blood was salty like iron and he found that he had a likening for it. There was a thrill in taking the life away from someone — their most prized position torn from them by his hand. It was a power unlike any other.
“Violence begets violence,” his teacher had said. Then she had watched as he was mercilessly beaten up by the jocks of his grade. She had done nothing to help him, she had even laughed as if she hadn’t cared that it were him that was getting beat up. She told him that he needed to ‘man up’. She had been his second victim, he had made it look like an accident. The police had thought it was a suicide.
He had gotten away with murder ever since then, becoming meaner and cleverer with each kill. The thrill of it was something he never tired of, but nothing he had to admit had compared to his first taste of blood. It was a compulsion to best that first kill that drove him harder than anything else. He always made sure they deserved death — he never killed anyone that didn’t deserve it. They all brought it upon themselves.
That night the wind howled banshee cries through the trees that swayed under the forceful hand of the zephyr, and the moon shone a bright amber through misty clouds. It was thirteen degrees out with a wind chill that made it bitterly cold to spend even a second exposed to the elements.
Yet this was the night he had to go out. He made sure that he was properly dressed before heading out the door. He knew that his girlfriend was cheating on him. He actually liked that she was, tonight he would be able to kill two for the price of one. He thought that the ecstasy might elevate his pleasure in the deed.
The slut was laying on the couch with her other ‘man’. Mae’s brown eyes opened wide when she noticed him standing there. “Kim!” she screeched. “It’s not what it looks like, I swear.”
“Save it, Mae, you’re screwing him.” He walked straight over to the lover and shot him in the head. Mae screamed like a frightened child. He snickered. She was covered in the man’s blood. He watched as she struggled beneath the weight of her dead lover. It was clear that she wanted to run, but couldn’t. She was trapped like a bird locked in a death match with a cat, there was no escaping for her. “Get up, you whore.”
“Kim, please,” Mae pleaded, her eyes shining with tears. “Please don’t hurt me.”
It was cute that she thought he could be reasoned with, or pathetic. He couldn’t decide which. Maybe both.
He pried the dead body off of her and then slapped her hard across the face. “I SAID GET UP!” he roared.
“I’m sorry,” she blanched, putting a hand to her cheek. “Kim, don’t be angry. Please don’t be. I’m so sorry.”
“Shut up,” he hissed.
“You’re a creep,” she snapped.
He backhanded her. “I said shut up.”
He started by stabbing her in the abdomen. She let out a gut wrenching cry like a gutted pig squealing before its death. “You’re weak,” he sneered, slicing shallowly at her throat so that she could feel the pain without dying just yet. He wanted to have some fun first. She struggled piteously against him, but it was of no use he was stronger than her. Then she bit him. “You filthy whore!” he snarled, as she staggered towards the door. He slammed the back of the gun into her skull.
Mae cried out as she fell to the ground, bleeding. “I’ll do anything you want, Kim, please just don’t kill me,” she sobbed.
“It’s too late for that,” he sneered. “Much to late.” He then stabbed at her this time, making sure to hit a vital artery in her throat. She choked up her own blood, and he smirked as she tried to talk — yet all she could do was gurgle on her own blood. He watched as the life drained from her eyes.
He then took care to stage the crime scene as if her lover brutally attacked her before she managed to get one shot off. He then left without disturbing a thing as if he had never been there.
Revenge was sweet.
By Linda M. Crate