Blood

“I’m telling you man, there’s no way The Falcons are going to the Bowl this year,” said Number One over my running water.

Number Two broke the unspoken rule and looked at Number One over the urinal divider.

“Bullshit,” exclaimed Two, “It’s the Knights that aren’t shit!”

I watched this exchange from the mirror bent over a sink, the two figures bickering about their mundane interests. Few things interested me as a child or adolescent, and sports definitely did not make it onto that list. I would have rather watched paint dry than a bunch of concussed Neanderthals throwing around a piece of leather and brutalizing each other over it.

They continued their conversation as they walked out of the restroom, the club music blaring through the door as they exited, then dying down to a muffled rumble as the door closed. I faced my reflection as the music faded, it was almost cinematic. Cold grey eyes stared back at me. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. But what are they when you don’t have one? Simply hot, pulsating, flesh that transmits neuroreceptors back to more warm, pulsating flesh? What are we with no soul? Does it scare you that I possess one?

Your philosophy will get you nowhere.

I agreed with myself, and splashed one last handful of icy water onto my face and then I was done. Straightening, I reached out and pulled a few paper towels from the wall dispenser, with which I dabbed my face off, then used to open the restroom door. Number One and Number Two chinsed on washing their hands, so I elected to not secondhand fondle their cocks, and the various other germs that contaminated the club’s bathroom’s handle.

The music hit me like a punch to the jaw. Blaring, angry, intense. Life. Bodies writhed on the dancefloor under the flashing lights, like maggots dumped from a corpse. For a moment, I felt whole. I was a normal guy on a normal night out at a normal hangout for all the normal people.

But then I saw her, perched at the bar like a delicate flower just waiting for me to pluck and take her home. She was perfect. And then I was back to who I truly was. Humanity abandoned, I set out like a snake in the grass.

Taking a woman home can be the easiest thing you ever do or the most difficult. Women are the most confusing and contorted creatures, their minds working in ways I will never understand. I pride myself on being cunning and intelligent, a silver-tongued genius who could persuade even the foulest of man and seduce the most hesitant of boys. But with women? I found myself almost… nervous to pursue them. But the butterflies made my conquest that much better.

I leaned across the bar, ordered a whiskey on the rocks, and pretended to be interested in the blonde floozy that I found slurring into my ear. The whore was wrinkling my shirt.

I glanced over at my target. I met her eyes. She smiled, I mirrored. Her head dipped and a strand of black hair fell across her face. I continued to stare, ignoring the slurring box-blonde that was drooling onto my shoulder. My target looked back at me, smiled again and tucked the ebony loose hair behind her delicate ear, then looked away.

That was a woman’s way of saying, “Talk to me.”

I left the blonde to the bartender and slid down to my target. The lighting had gone blue, bathing her in cerulean. She wore a black sequined dress that shimmered like a handful of precious coins. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, slanted and contrasting her pale skin. She had minimal makeup on and tenderly held a leather clutch. Her body was thin but not emaciated, toned but not buff. Her veins peered through her skin like azure tunnels through ivory.

A perfect woman, all mine for the taking.

“Hi,” I introduced to her over the thrumming music, “My name is Dean.”

She nodded, then said, “Hello, my name is Kim.”

Her voice was soft, even over the music. I could barely hear her. From the strain of projecting her voice, a vein surfaced through the skin on her neck. Perfect.

Keep her talking.

“What do you do?”

“I’m good, how do you do?”

Stupid girl. Good. Beautiful and stupid, what is a better combination for me?

From there, I had her ensnared. I told her I was a lawyer, I told her I volunteered in my free time at animal shelters. I had noticed her leather clutch was actually faux leather. Good for me in assuming she was an environmentalist, she disclosed to me she was vegan. That explains her body, her veins. She’ll be easy to lift, easy to move.

She all but twirled her hair around her finger as I spoke to her, purring to her lies and her lapping them up. When I lie, some struggling part of me has the audacity to almost feel bad, especially when I lie to the pretty ones. I had one young college boy one-time, perfect skin and body, a yoga instructor. He told me his parents cast him out because he was gay. He even cried to me over it; I suppose I fed him one too many martinis. But alcohol thins the blood, makes it flow quicker. He was putty in my hands, and so was she.

Two cosmopolitans and almost an hour later she was sucking my neck in the backseat of the cab, the driver struggling to keep his eyes on the road and us at the same time. She smelled of liquor and expensive perfume. I can’t remember what she said she did for a living, or if I had even bothered to ask. Her fingers fumbled with my tie and I felt a small smile tug at the corner of my lips. So eager, so ignorant. Innocent. Pure. Mine, all mine. She knows not what waits for her, she knows not of the trap she fell in. This poor girl is my fly and I am her honey. Naivety and desperation breed my perfect victim.

I tipped the driver a considerable amount. He yelled thanks to me in both English and his native language. Kim slurred something about how generous I was. I smiled and walked her through my front door. I lived in a perfect, quaint little house in a perfect, quaint little neighborhood. The mothers jogged with their babies stuffed in strollers and the dads drove their kids to soccer practice. The elderly fed the birds in the gaited in park and the teens skated on the sidewalks. All unaware of the wolf in the flock.

I was caught off guard by her pressing me through the door and against the wall, her lips on my neck, leaving a mark I knew would last too long. She came up for a kiss, but I stopped her.

“Slow down,” I breathed against her lips, “Why are you in a rush? Let’s take our time.”

She chuckled against my chin and nodded, dropping her head against my shoulder and pecking the hickey. I pushed us off the wall and towards the couch, sitting her down and telling her I’d be right back with drinks. She nodded and began to remove her shoes.

So trusting, so naive. I could return with a spiked glass, and she would never know. Poor girl, her idiocy will be her downfall tonight. I intended on returning with a spiked glass, but not in the way you think. I’m a devil, not an animal. I might do heinous things but I have standards.

I poured some fine rosé and broke a Rohypnol into her glass. She had slipped out of her dress by the time I returned and was posed on the couch. She smiled and moved languidly upon seeing me return.

“Took you long enough,” her voice was as high and soft as windchimes.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t find my corkscrew. You like rosé, right?” I asked, as if I had been paying attention to her talking this entire time.

She nodded and took the glass from me, sipped it, set it down on my cherrywood table, then wrapped her hands around my neck and pulled me down onto her. I went with her for a few moments then pulled her into sitting position and drank a sip from my own glass, subtly promoting her to sip from her own. Her body was beautiful, draped in red lingerie and perfectly unmarked. I would enjoy ruining her tonight.

After a few more sips from our glasses of wine, a bit longer of a make-out session than I had anticipated, and some uncomfortable groping, she went limp underneath me.

Now, my ritual may begin.

I excitedly jumped from my couch and rushed to my bedroom. This was all I had been waiting on for weeks. I was so eager to begin; I have been pent up for almost a month. In my bedroom, I undressed completely. I stopped in front of a mirror to examine my body. Not too heavyset, not too thin. Not too muscular, not too scrawny. I was perfect, tanned skin taught over a decently muscled frame, adorned with perfectly manicured hair and nails and the like. I was perfect. She was perfect. She’s one of the best scores I’ve had in a while, since my little gay yoga instructor. Maybe I should peruse a yoga studio and see who is ripe for the picking.

I exited my bedroom and stood over her limp form on my couch. Her onyx hair flowed from her scalp freely on my couch. Her arms were rested beside her face, I had them pinned there only moments ago. Her lingerie still adorned her perfectly balanced frame, covering her teasingly but effectively. I gently removed the sparse clothing from her, careful to not blemish my prize. Her naked form was even more exquisite. I had to say, I would regret killing her before I had the chance to fuck her.

I lifted my porcelain doll from my couch and carried her to my basement. Her breath was hot against my neck, spilling from her parted lips and pluming against the hickey she left. Her body was light in my arms, and her skin was so smooth. God, I really should have fucked her before. But I don’t like mixing fluids, I don’t like how they taste after sex. It’s like I soil them. They taste so much sweeter when I cut their throats only, after a nice glass of roofied rosé has time to marinate in their system. She was going to taste exquisite.

My basement was sparsely filled, I had a water heater down here, spare chairs, and some unpacked boxes from my fairly recent move. And a fake wall. The construction of the wall had taken longer than I cared to admit, but once you find the right workers who won’t ask too many questions, you can settle with a longer building time. The fake wall was on the opposite wall of the water heater. I laid my toy down by the entrance and pushed on the passageway. It took a considerable amount of effort, which I’m not upset about, then finally gave way to concrete stairs descending into darkness.

After picking my prize back up, we both ventured down the eerie passage. I would feel scared if I wasn’t aware there was no monster lurking in the abyss. The monster was returning to his abyss with his spoils.

I had white linoleum floors, with minimum grouting. I didn’t want anything that would hold too much blood. My builders didn’t question when I told them to double seal everything. I lied and said I was a painter. Which is kind of true, they just don’t know my preferred medium.

The walls had clear plastic taped over them and so did the ceiling. In one corner was a stainless-steel wash area, with a sink and a few cabinets and a matching stainless-steel table. A showerhead was jutting from the opposite wall of the sink with a drain in the floor. And, in the center of the room, my upside-down cross. A basin set underneath the cross, empty and just waiting to be filled. I had built the cross myself, but the basin was bought at a farming supplies store in the last town I drifted from. The cross had ankle restraints, arm restraints, and two for the torso. I laid my lamb down on the floor, then flipped the cross to a standing position (it swiveled). And, after lifting her yet again, I placed her in the restraints, then flipped her back upside down.

Her head dangled limp over the basin, like a swan who had been strung up by her feet. I admired her naked form, observed how serene she was. Everything was dead silent. Perfect. The calm before the storm.

I walked to my counter, retrieved my favorite knife, and then returned to my prize. Her delicate throat laid exposed to me, an eager wolf with salivating jaws. All that existed in this moment was her and I. My ears began to ring. I was hard already, staring at her throat. I knew what was pulsing behind her ivory skin. The anticipation was killing me.

You whore, hurry up and wake up.

Finally after what felt like ages, her dark lashes fluttered open. We made eye contact, and there it was. Confusion, realization, and then sheer and unadulterated terror, all in the span of a single second. Her synapses were firing, her adrenaline was pumping, and now it was my time. I was thankful for the mouth piece I had installed, for she began to scream and sob. It made me harder, it made my ears ring louder, it made me quiver with anticipation.

I crouched down in front of her. Tears spilled from her eyes, she struggled and rattled in her restraints. I shushed her, and brushed the knife against her cheek. She screamed even louder and sobbed harder, tears pitter-pattering in the basin. Such a horrifying moment, such a tragic death for this young woman. In this moment, I controlled her entire universe. I was her God, I was her Fate.

And as quickly as she began to scream, she began to pour a crimson river from me.

She didn’t realize I had slashed her throat till the blood coursed over her eyes. I removed the gag, and she sputtered and choked. I was aching, the burgundy liquid spilled into the basin and filled it up. I remained crouched and watched her, watched the life slowly burn out of her eyes. Tears mixed with her blood. And she was beautiful.

Now, there is only about a gallon to a gallon and a half of blood in the human body. But this basin was much deeper and wider. I slipped inside, under the waterfall. I couldn’t exactly bathe in her life, but I could more-so shower. Her warmth spilled over me and tasted so delicious on my tongue. I was aching to burst; this was overwhelming for me. I touched and thought of it all as she bled for me. The hot flesh, the warm liquid, her sobs, her screams, I was so close from all of it. My hair was matted in blood now, it was coagulating on my scalp and in my hair. I felt the pressure building as I caught her dribble and rubbed it over my body. I wanted her covering every inch of me. I let out a sharp breath mixed with a moan, the liquid spilled over the top of my lip and into my mouth. God, she tasted so sweet. The adrenaline always made them taste better. And the alcohol, too. I was aching, throbbing, this had been what I was waiting to do for weeks. I reached out and touched the source of my pool, the warm flesh gurgling out my darkest desire, and that was enough for me. Light exploded behind my eyelids as I groaned and gritted my teeth, humping into my hand and covered in her blood. I mixed my seed with her life. This was more beautiful than making a child. I panted, extended from my spoil. My ears rang even louder. I leaned my head onto hers. She was cooling. The river had turned to a dribble. My paradise was over, the basin was rapidly cooling. A perfect time for a comedown.

I stepped out from my bath after a few more moments of relishing, careful not to slip, and walked over to my shower. The hot water turned maroon as it spiraled down the drain, then burgundy, then a brownish color, and then gone. All gone, now. I sighed as I scrubbed my body with soap. You would think we would die in a more bombastic way, more dramatic. You’d think we’d hold more than a gallon. Maybe a gallon and a half, if you’re lucky. The smaller girls that I take home usually don’t expel as much. They aren’t as exciting as when I pick up a young man. Especially ones who work out. I often daydream about that night that yoga twink and I shared. That boy, he was a perfect victim. I need to find another like that.

Idle thoughts aside, I finished bathing and was now faced with the task of disposal. She was still leaking pitifully. Her skin was greyed now, no longer warm and pale. Her face was covered by a crimson veil, her hair matted to the side of the basin and clumped up by coagulating blood. She was still beautiful, but now she is of no use to me. The stench would become overwhelming sooner or later.

I took her down from the cross and over to my table, and began dismembering her. I had a bone saw specifically for this. I used to work in an orthopedic clinic, that’s how I procured one if you’re wondering. I cut her into tiny pieces, and packed her away in trash bags. Tomorrow, I would run by Clyde’s and dispose of her. Clyde was a man who I found on the brink of suicide. He was homeless, his wife had passed away, and his only child was sick. They had lost their pig farm to the bank. I, a benevolent devil, offered to buy his farm back for him and keep Clyde sitting pretty so long as I had his vow of silence of my use of his pigs to dispose of my little trophies. Clyde objected at first, but a gun to his son’s head quickly put him in my back pocket. He was a good man who I had bent over and fucked, and some part of me tries to feel guilty about it.

Isn’t that much more terrifying? That I feel? I am not some monster you, dear reader, can’t relate to. I’m just like you. I have a family who I love, people I want to protect, TV shows I watch, movies that make me cry, things I regret. It’s so much scarier when you realize there isn’t much that sets us apart. You aren’t too different than I. That is the true horror of this book. You and I, we are only different in one way:

I am honest about who I am.