(Note: This story is not for the faint of heart. There is extreme violence and murder – this is after all about a serial killer and told from the serial killer’s pov)
There she is. You wouldn’t notice anything unusual about her, but I’ve been watching her now for three weeks. She has that perfect sway to her hips. Time to get down to business.
“Excuse me. I am trying to get my grandfather loaded into my van, but the lift is broken. Can you help me?”
I’ve been using my grandfather for years now. He has no clue what’s going on. He just sits and drools. I know, it’s a lame excuse and has been done before, but just wait. It gets more original.
She leaves the safety of her car and follows me to the van. She goes in first to gently hold my grandfather’s head. Such a nice woman’s touch. As soon as he is loaded in, I slam the door shut. She tries to get out of the side door, but it’s bolted shut. The bulletproof glass that separates the back of the van from the front keeps her from beating the crap out of me as I drive away. I do enjoy the sound of her fists pounding on the glass though. The oxygen mask over my grandfather’s face isn’t just for looks, nor for his health. I flip a switch and the back fills with nitro gas. Grandfather is okay, but my mark has passed out.
Back home, grandfather is tucked safely into bed. I descend into the basement where my mark is naked and strung out on a table – hands bound together above her head, her mouth gagged so I don’t have to hear her screams too soon and her legs separated by a metal bar bolted between her ankles. She’ll stay fairly still this way. I go to my work table and lay out my tools – a boner knife, a mallet, several ice picks, a whip and a bottle of vinegar.
She stirs. I hear her moans and I know it’s time to begin. I turn with the mallet and an ice pick in my hands. Her eyes are wide with fear. You should see how she writhes and shakes. Sweat beads up on her forehead. I stand at her waist and press my thumb into her hip until I feel the hip bone. Then I place the ice pick over the spot and with a swift pound of the mallet, I drive it deep between the hip bone and the thigh bone. There’s the sound I’ve been waiting for – the slight crunch of cartilage. Her scream is muffled, but tears stream down her cheeks. You would have pity for her, wouldn’t you? Not me. I proceed to the other side of the table and drive a second ice pick into the other hip. She is secured.
I grasp a boner knife in my hand and return to my mark. I run the tip of the knife along each cheek, across her chin and down the center of her throat.
“Shhhhhh… don’t move or I may just slip too soon,” I whisper into her ear.
With expert precision, I begin slicing away tiny strips of her flesh – first from each forearm, then from each thigh. Each strip is hung on one of the lines that runs from one end of the basement to the other. My trophies. Hundreds and hundreds of strips of flesh.
Back to my mark once again, I run my knife along each breast, close to the bone, just enough to separate, but not remove them completely. I return to my work station and grab the vinegar and whip. Finally, I remove her gag. As I pour the vinegar over her bloody flesh, I bask in the sound of her screams. With the whip in hand, I strike her flesh over and over again. Watch as whelps rise upon her flesh. And the pièce de résistance – I pour on more vinegar until she passes out from the pain.
Ahhhhh… you should have heard her. If I could only get you to understand how beautiful her screams are, how they gladden my heart, then perhaps you would know how empowering this feels. This has been hours of pleasure.
I stand at the top of the table and pat her face until she awakens. As I hold the knife out in front of her face, I whisper, “Nothing personal, dear,” and then quickly slit her throat.
I stroll back to my work bench and turn on my computer. I pull up the file of mother dancing with me as a child, my feet on top of her feet, my hands holding on to her hips as she sways. You’d think this would be a happy, cherished memory, wouldn’t you? That dance led to helping in the kitchen. To filleting a fish. To the slip of the knife that cuts mother deeply on the thigh. And then a beating moments later. She strings me up in the closet, throws vinegar on my whelps and laughs as I scream. She doesn’t stop until I pass out. This isn’t my first punishment of this nature, nor the last, but mother was my first kill.
©2016 Lori Carlson. All rights reserved.