Killer

This is my second post today, although technically not since it's past midnight. I wrote this story off the cuff a little earlier, but it turned out pretty well so I decided to post it. It's about a serial killer. I just fancied a change from all the cheerful stuff I usually write.

I’m staring at you, but you’re so deeply asleep that you don’t notice; don’t even flinch as my eyes attempt to read your soul. Your breathing is deep and regular, your long eyelashes drip onto your cheeks and there is a strand of hair falling across your face. The rest of your mane of dark curls falls across the pillow behind you, covering it almost entirely. In your sleep you’ve thrown the duvet to one side so that I can see your naked form perfectly. Your skin is remarkably flawless, soft and milky white. You bundle your arms up to your chest, curling up into an almost foetal position, though one leg stretches out whilst the other bends up slightly. I can see the pattern of your ribs, the bluish tinge of your veins through your skin. Could you be any more perfect? I push the hair back from your face, and you flex your eyebrows a little in reaction but remain deeply within your slumber.

I should go. One more minute. I want to imprint this upon my memory forever. The girl I did not kill. Could not bear to. Or else, I wouldn’t bear it.

But why? You started out much like the others. We met within the throbbing beats and over-indulgent alcohol sales.

“Can I buy you a drink?”
“I don’t know, can you?”
“Certainly. What would you like?”
“Whisky,”
“What type?”
“What?”
“Type?”
“Do they even sell whisky here?”
“I’d expect the cheap variety, yes,”
“I fucking hate whisky,”
“Then why drink it?”
“It has this thing called a ‘high alcoholic percentage’,”
“I see. If that’s what you want then I’d recommend Jack Daniels,”
“I hate that even more. What’s your name?”
“It’s Archie,”
“Cute. You know something, Archie?”
“A few things. What in particular?”
“You’re kind of beautiful,”

Nobody had ever said that to me before. Not in so many words. I’d had; handsome, attractive, fit, buff all of the inane sayings that girls like you have. But you weren’t like them. I hadn’t noticed under the coloured lights just how pale you were; the way you were dressed like them, but at the same time not at all like them. You wore heels and a dress but if one looked closely one could see that the dress bore the words ‘Born To Kill’, which I almost dared to hope was a Kubrick reference.

You let me buy you that god-damn whisky, but you didn’t try to make awkward conversation over the hopelessly loud shit-fest that was supposed to be called ‘music’. You danced. But I had never seen anyone dance in this way; like it had no meaning other than to serve your own needs. You weren’t putting on a show, but somehow this made you all the more attractive. The heart I often forget I possess started fluttering like a startled caged bird, like a thirteen year old with a crush. This was swiftly followed with a cold dose of fear. What on earth were you doing to me? This was not allowed. I would not let you get away with this. And that is when I decided you were to die; like the others.

The first time it happened it was an accident. The second time I meant it. My tally is up to six girls. You were to be number seven; but I guess you were lucky.

You let me lead you quietly away from the club.
“We’re going home?”
“Yes…we?”
“I’m coming with you?”
“Of course,”
“I hope you know that I don’t normally do this,”
“I do now,”
“What do you want to do…once we’re there, I mean?”

You asked the question with large, mockingly innocent eyes. I smiled at the joke and kissed you softly on the lips. It was so affectionate that even I was taken aback. This act seemed so jarringly out of character that I did it again, just to ensure that it had actually occurred. Sure enough I felt your lips on my own and my face turned red, my pulse racing from the simplest touch.

In the taxi you held my hand, like a school girl holds hands with her sweetheart. I let you. That is when I knew that something was most definitely, horribly wrong.

When you walked into my apartment you went straight to the bedroom. There was no pretence of other intentions. I undressed you slowly, taking my time to discover every inch of you. Your beauty took my breath away. I forgot to question how I was feeling, entirely lost in you. Your sweet scent, how the skin on your neck tasted, the soft moans of pleasure you made when I touched you. Everything was slow, careful yet so intense that I felt the most amazing, earth-shattering joy I had ever experienced. No-one else had ever made me feel this way. It wasn’t right.

“Can I stay here?”
“Yes,”
“Thank you,”

We both lay awake for a while. Words were unnecessary as we had just experienced one another so intimately that there was nothing more to be communicated. Eventually, you fell asleep.

I am still staring at you, thinking of this. Thinking of how, if you were someone else, I would have taken the pillow beside me and smothered you until the last breath left your body. How I would have stared at your corpse a while before placing it in a bed of lily’s atop the coffins I kept especially for these occasions. I would have admired your beauty in death before burying you deep within the garden plot. I would have placed an angel gravestone there because I never knew your name. Then, I would cry for you just as I cried for the others. But you had to die, I would have reasoned, because otherwise I would have to die. It was them or it was me. So far, it had always been them. But I can’t even comprehend seeing your corpse.

So, what do I do? I know it. I know what I must do, but I am frightened. I am weak. What is most painless? I have no gun, no dagger. Ah, but I do live on the thirteenth floor. The window, of course how could I have been so stupid? The window; the oblivion. I open the door to the balcony as quietly as I can, so as not to wake you.

It is so cold, but I suppose that doesn’t matter too much. I clamber over the railing, holding on whilst leaning over and staring at the street below. I know the fall will kill me. It is my intention to die. Just let go. Let go. Why will my hands not obey? I’m crying, I realise. I close my eyes; brace myself and then relax my hold without thinking of the consequences. A fast, falling sensation…