“If pleasures are greatest in anticipation, just remember that this is also true of trouble.”- Elbert Hubbard

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 as he stood there, and each time she moved 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.  Appearing on the cover of Vogue, girls with tattered t-shirts and tear stained faces. What a great look that would be.  “Victim chic”, they could call it.

He breathed in deeply, savoring the moment. His favorite part about killing had always been the first cut. Every victim believes they will escape or be saved until the cool steel blade drags across their flesh. Then, at that moment, a flash of recognition occurs in their eyes and they KNOW.  Denial disappears and is replaced by the knowledge that death is by their side, waiting to tear them to pieces.  This moment of enlightenment was something he never grew tired of witnessing, and one he looked forward to seeing on the face of the squirming pet he had currently in front of him.

He drove his fist into her face, hard. Little flecks of blood sprayed across 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 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 reason and tore the string of her underwear that ran across her hip. “That’s where the first cut would go”, he mused. “Just where her cute little ‘nautical star’ tattoo is.”  He decided to open her up and paint his name across her thigh.  He leaned over, slowly bringing the blade to the thrashing girl beneath him and measuring an extra large cut because he had a very long name, when there was a loud knock at the front door.

At the sound of the knock his victim started to scream as loud as she could.  She thrashed with new hope and 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, and swung a ferocious blow to her ribs. He felt bone crack and she struggled for a moment more until she felt the terrible pain shoot through her body. 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 turned back and quickly grabbed the 9mm handgun from above the refrigerator, tucking into the waist of his pants and tried to slow his beating heart.  As he slowly turned the knob he shook his head and laughed.  He always thought he would go so much longer without getting caught.  At least another ten years.  But now here he was with a policeman at his door and a girl tied to his bed.  “Well, it had to happen some time.”

“Can I help you?” he asked as he opened the door. He held his hand behind his back, pretending to tuck in his shirt, and his sigh of relief could barely be contained as he realized the man was in a fire captain’s uniform and not a policeman’s uniform.  He quickly stuffed a ten dollar bill into the outstretched container and made his way back to his pet.

He looked at her and licked his lips. The interruption had broken his flow and he was irritated, but she still looked good.  A little beat up now, but still hot. “Where were we, kitty?” he said just as something came crashing through the front window and jolted him out of his murderous fantasy for the second time.

He dropped to his knees and pulled out the pistol from his back. Slowly he crept to the window, looking around each corner as he made his way through the apartment. 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 finally seeing 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 that they had left behind. 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. She shrieked and thrashed, previously passive but unable to contain the agony of the burning coal of the cigarette.  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 again and continued to burn her, grinding another cigarette into her forearm as she whipped her head around and prayed to God or whatever deity she found herself drawn to.  He tore a clump of hair from her head and continued 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 took a good, clear look 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, and 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.”