The anticipation was killing him. She was so beautiful, tied to the bed like a helpless victim with her wide eyes locked on his in terror. She thrashed back and forth, and each time her body writhed on the mattress his fists clenched a bit more and the need for blood elevated in his mind. He slid his finger across her thigh; so smooth and pale. He touched her stomach, her hips. She tried to scream but the sounds were muffled thanks to the duct tape firmly sealed across her full, red lips. Tears began to run down her cheeks, taking make-up with them and leaving a streaked trail of black behind. He loved that look. Maybe someday this would come into style, he thought to himself. “Victim chic.” On the cover of Vogue, girls with tattered t-shirts and tear stained faces. What a great look that would be.
He breathed in deeply, savoring the moment. His favorite part about killing was the first cut. The first incision. Every victim believes they will escape or be saved or be spared until the cool steel blade drags across their flesh. Then at that moment a flash of recognition occurs in their eyes. They KNOW. Denial disappears and is replaced by the knowledge that death is by their side, waiting to tear them to pieces. The person stops fighting you and starts fighting death itself. Completely useless, of course. We all die. Some just more painfully than others.
He d
rove his fist into her face, hard. Little flecks of blood sprayed on to the pillow and the thrashing began again. She was pulling so hard at the ropes that her skin was raw and red. The frame of the bed was shaking almost as bad as she was and the tears on her face were really running free. He was ready.
He felt good.
He turned to his collection and selected a knife with a closed grip, razor sharp with a small hook welded on to the hilt. He went over to his little victim and gave her a nice little kick for no other reason than to torment and tore the string of her underwear that ran across her hip. That’s where the first cut would go. Just where her cute little “nautical star” tattoo was. He’d open her up and play with her blood. Paint his name across her thigh. It would have to be a big cut because he had a long name, he mused. He leaned over, slowly bringing the blade to the thrashing girl beneath him when there was a loud knock at the front door.
When she heard the knock his victim started to scream as loud as she could, thrashing with new hope as her back arched and her entire body lifted up from the bed. He took a pillow and laid it across her face, pushing it with all his might as he gave her a strong right hook to the ribs. He felt bone crack and she immediately stopped thrashing. A broken rib will take the fight out of most people, especially a battered victim tied to a bed with a pillow over her face.
He collected himself and went to answer the door, and when he saw the dark blue uniform through the window he began to panic. He grabbed the 9mm handgun from above the refrigerator, tucking into the waist of his pants and as calmly as he could turned the knob. He thought he would have gone a hell of a lot longer than this before getting caught but that’s how it goes sometimes. This cops face was disappearing, though. It would be backup that took him down if anything.
“Can I help you?” he asked as he opened the door. A sigh of relief was barely contained when he saw the uniform was that of a fire chief and the man was raising funds for a fire station nearby. He gave the man a $10 and said goodbye, shutting the door and returning to his little pet.
He looked at her and licked his lips. A little beat up now, but still hot. “Where were we, kitty?” he said just as something came crashing through the front window.
He dropped to his knees and pulled out the pistol from his back. Slowly he crept to the window, looking around each corner. Once in the kitchen he quickly stood and pointed the firearm at each area of the room, covering all the angles. Everything was clear, nothing out of place, except for the baseball sitting on the linoleum tile. He shook his head and laughed.
He looked up and down the sidewalk for a few minutes before he finally saw the kids half a block up the street. They were hiding, but doing a piss-poor job of doing so. He could see them watching him and he also could see the various baseball gloves and bats scattered around the field across the street from them. He jogged up to them and put the ball on the ground. “Here’s your ball. Next time try to aim a little better.” He walked away and hoped they would switch to hopscotch or something. Better yet, just go inside. Don t kids just play video games these days?
He stood in front of his pet, frustrated and angry. She was quiet and breathing shallowly, very passive. His blood had cooled thanks to all the interruptions, which had him feeling deflated and let down. He sat down next to her on the bed and began to let his fingers dance across her side. Her flesh felt good as he touched her, so smooth and cool. He started to push down forcefully on her ribs, which made her yell out in pain. The muffled sound made his blood begin to flow again and he took her hair in his hands and looked her in her sharp, green eyes. “You are going to die. You don’t believe me yet, but you will. You will the second I cut you”. Then he threw her head back to the pillow and turned to get his knife. He was practically drooling, the need to open this girl was so bad that it was starting to take him over and make him crazy. He gripped the knife so hard his knuckles were white and he turned to her, jaw clenched and eyes wide with rage. That’s when the doorbell rang and a woman’s voice yelled “hello?”.
“Fuck!” he cursed. He couldn’t take it anymore. He was going to lose it. He stomped to the front door, opened it quickly without any concern for who was on the other side, and said “WHAT?” The woman on the other side was caught off guard but only for a second.
“Billy…he’s my son…he seems to have broken your window.” The woman looked very embarrassed. “I’m really sorry, “ she said. “I was wondering how much the damages were going to come to? I wouldn’t feel right without paying for it.” Her voice trailed off apologetically at the end.
He tried to relax. He just moved to the neighborhood and had to fit in. They traded information and he agreed to send her the bill. She was chatty, wanting to make small talk and he eventually had to lie and tell her he had something on the stove.
“Oh! Bill Senior…that’s my husband…he loves to cook. He cooks for us all the time!” she said with a smile. “What are you having?”
He almost punched her in the face.
“Pasta,” he said and shut the door. “Goodbye!” he yelled afterward through the broken glass but he knew it was too late. She thought he was a prick. Oh well. He was one.
“Here I come, kitty kitty! You better get ready!” He turned on the stereo and began flicking all the light switches on and off as he made his way down the hall, yelling loudly. When he entered the bedroom he lit a cigarette and began to burn her arms with it, so full of anger and frustration that he no longer had any composure. Normally he was calm, restrained, but now he was animalistic. He was going to carve this one to ribbons. His cellphone started to ring but he ignored it, letting it go to voicemail. It rang again but he ignored it and continued to burn her, grinding another cigarette into her forearm and working his way up to the first cut. Nothing was going to distract him from that now.
The home phone began to ring and the answering machine picked up.
“Yo, man”, a voice said. “It’s Thursday! We have Phillies tickets, remember? You better get your ass down here or I’m leaving without you, bro! Later!”
He sighed. His eyes began to focus and he looked at the girl, barely breathing, coughing up blood from the broken rib, a bit of the nasty phlegm starting to leak out from the side of the duct tape. Large searing burn holes covered her arms, her wrists and ankles torn apart so badly, raw from the ropes chewing at her flesh. Her eyes were so puffy from the tears and the black make-up was no longer a streak down her cheek but a circle around each swollen eye, making her look like a raccoon. Each time she breathed a small bubble of snot would expand and contract from her left nostril and he was pretty sure she had pissed herself.
“Fuck it” he said as he plunged the knife into her chest with disinterest and held it there for a moment as her heart ceased to beat. “The tickets are third row, right behind home plate.”
“Besides, you look like SHIT now.”
It was hard to breathe. She had been dreaming of running up a flight of stairs, up and up, but never reaching the top. Higher and higher she would climb, but each step she took would take her no closer to the light at the highest point of the staircase. Her lungs were now begging for air, but it was difficult to answer the request for some reason.
Panic set in. Janice thrashed as hard as she could, but only succeeded in hurting herself. Both her feet were tied as well, firmly secured to the foot of the steel metal frame of the bed. The ropes bit into her flesh as she pulled and pushed and thrashed as best she could, but nothing happened. Tears welled behind the tape and began to burn her eyes, mixing with the glue of the heavy duty tape and irritating the sensitive tissue of her eyelids. Her flesh burned where the bindings cut through the skin, and her eyes stung. Her throat was raw from forcing throaty screams that, although requiring much energy, would most likely have not been very audible thanks to the fact that her mouth was sealed shut. Eventually Janice stopped fighting and simply went limp.
She pulled again on the ropes tied to her legs, but gently this time. They were firmly secured, but the bed frame itself was not of the most sturdy construction. The steel feet scraped against the floor, making a sound which sounded like concrete. The echo was hollow and dead, her ears telling her the room was large and lightly furnished. It was most likely a basement, judging from the concrete floor and the smell of mildew and earth that was now registering in her nose. That fact send a new surge of fear, just knowing that she was below ground already; a grave of sorts prepared for her before she was even dead.
