Brain Creation

*the phrase or line I have to start with will always be bolded and first*

“Do you know who they are?”

A hush circles around the courtroom as the killer finally speaks, the only words to be uttered during the week court case and year holding time. The chill in his eyes never changed as he spoke. The creaking in the chair stops as he pauses from the unnerving rocking he’s been doing since he sat down, looking caged and unsatisfied. How would the Judge feel if she knew he planned her murder? Would the jury stop staring if they knew he can vividly picture the pretty innocent blond in the front begging for life?

They would never know that he rocked because he would never be able to act on the images in his head. His master hands still, unable to demonstrate their many talents. His mouth dutifully shut against his promises and whispers of death.

Wishing he could be the last voice to many of the females watching him now, the images come back and he begins rocking again, sliding his eyes across the room, a slow slither that induces fear.

His voice, crisp and smooth cut over the voice of the prosecutor, who was asking about the consistencies and meaning behind his action. Ignorant to the beauty he induced. Lucky enough not the understand that he had no choice in killing, it’s what he was made for.

The courtroom was silent, a common occurrence in this case. People almost unwilling to breath. Members of the jury pressed back against their chair, many refusing to look while others were openly interested.

Maybe from the days spent in the courtroom with such a man. Or from the nightmares each of them had about him. Some of them will remember the pictures. Others his voice, or his eyes. Many of the females would buy themselves knives, though they know it would have done nothing against him. But with a certain despair, they would always remember this moment, this man and this case.

“Who?”

A dreadfully curious question that had to be ask, asked by the male prosecutor in a high guarded voice.

Maybe it was asked because they knew he remembers every instance, every woman. The detail put into everyone leaving no explanation. But his smirk gave no answer, only left questions.

“The ones you will never find. ” It was said as a statement, a calm finality lacing every word. Perhaps nobody in that room would realize it wasn’t said to gloat, or to show pride. But it was spoken to the families that held out hope, against all odds, that his voice wasn’t the last they heard.

That was the last thing he said to anyone.

They were ignorant. They were hopeful that he could be lying, that he wanted to weave one last web of fear. Yes, they thought, that was it. He just wanted them to live in fear that this nightmare would never be over.

Maybe if they knew then what they know now, more questions would have been asked. Maybe they could have stopped it.

10 years and 248 days earlier

The morning air was crisp and full of possibilities, the dew blissfully unaware as to whose boots it was desperately clinging to. A shiver of excitement made its way down the man's back, images flashing through his head as strong as the wind that sways the oaks. Even the burn of his muscles and sticky sweat gliding down him can’t hinder the thrill, the satisfaction and pride he feels as he digs.

As he looks over, he is met with an image he thought he could only dream of. One that kept him awake, taunting him. He should have recognized the warning then, should have felt the darkness. Telling him that once wouldn’t be enough. That the first time would be the best and that he would stop at nothing to feel that way again. He ignored it. Accepted the consequence of what he had done, all for what he is feeling now.

For this, he thought, I will never stop.

Swiping a hand across his sweaty forehead he smiles at the hole he dug, grateful for the burn that tells him that this is indeed real. He glanced over at the small daffodil flowers. A bright yellow in a dark world. The hope of rebirth, the perfect symbolism for such an occasion. He frowns at the deep red staining the earth, the mess that was left. The chaos that overtook him.

Next time. Next time will be better.

When he was finished he planted the flowers, perfectly arranged. He breathed in the fragrance of moist dirt and fresh earth, something that would become quite common in the coming years. Such peace, hiding the life and brilliance snuffed out and buried where nobody would find her. He smiles as he thinks of the people she begged for, the things she said out of fear. The ones that would miss her, and always wonder what had happened, yet somehow knew they would never see her again. Like a dark shadow that would creep around the corners of her memory, even the good ones.

He grabbed his equipment, took one last look, saved that last memory. And as quickly as he came, he was gone. The only evidence left behind was an emblem of regrowth, a trail through the dew and a scent in the wind. A promise, a whisper of secrets.

A perfect place, he thinks, to be laid to rest.

That was the first. One that they would never find, never know about. Such brilliance quickly reduced to nothing at the hands of a master. At the hands of a monster some would say, depending on who you were. The one with the smirk or the one in the ground.

“Let my story begin” he hums into the wind.