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Send to FriendI couldn't believe what I had just done. I had often fantasized about it many times throughout my adult life and teenage years, but never would I have previously thought myself capable of such a deed. The entire experience had a surreal, almost dreamlike quality to it, yet somehow felt exquisitely real at the same time. I really had done it, after all. My naked body had been covered in her blood and shit, which now seeped through the fabric of my clothes, the stains showing in various dark patches over my outfit, which no doubt made me reek horribly, though I hadn’t noticed at all since by now I was used to the vile stench.
I left her battered, disfigured face covered in my semen, but this was before DNA testing made its way into forensics, so I wasn't worried about that. I had also smeared my prints all over that motel room, which did concern me a bit, but I tried not to think about it. I had no connection to Heather, so the cops had no reason to suspect I had anything to do with her murder. I had also never been arrested, so they didn’t have my prints on file. Those fools will never catch me, I told myself again and again, and believed it, too.
I didn't feel an ounce of guilt or remorse over what I had done. She was a worthless whore who no one knew and no one gave a shit about except maybe her pimp. Her own parents had cast her away. She was nothing. She would probably have been murdered by someone else eventually anyway, or died of a drug overdose, or perhaps AIDS or some other venereal disease. I was only a catalyst for death, merely speeding up her inevitable demise. I was never even nauseated by the site or mental image of her blood smearing over everything in sight. I rushed to the bathroom not to puke my guts out, but to take a shower.
I pulled my cloths off and threw them over the tiled bathroom floor, where I would leave them for the night, only to take them out in the trash the next morning. I rested my hands over the wash basin of my bathroom mirror and felt a tugging sensation as the drying blood glued my palms to the marble surface, then looked into the mirror and saw that my face was still smeared in darkening crimson. The blood had hardened into my hair, turning into what looked and felt like hardened black wires pointing out from my scalp. On my face, the blood dried to a maroon resin mask, revealing only my eyes, which appeared mellow, but still alert. I poked my tongue out to lick the last residue of shit that clung to my lips, and then blinked and removed my hands from the wash basin, leaving behind a bloody hand print over the surface.
Already there was a growing sense of disappointment in tonight’s events, making my heart yearn for the chance to do it again, and to set it right, but I temporarily banished such thoughts from my mind, for the objective now was to clean myself off. However complete or incomplete I felt after the murder, I couldn’t go into work the next morning looking the way I did now, with blood clinging over every inch of my body.
I felt a cold draft gently caress the small of my back, making me shiver lightly, as I turned the faucet on and splashed cold water over my face. The cold water dripped down my brow and the bridge of my nose, and the mask of dried blood gently melted away in a few thinning canals that left the actual flesh of my face exposed in pink lines etched across a burgundy surface. I continued to scrub fiercely at my face, expanding the clean spots and struggling to clean the blood off until my face—while not completely cleaned off—was at least presentable, with only a few small black splotches, like a thin layer of soot along my cheeks and forehead. I then dumped half the tube of Crest tooth paste into my mouth and brushed my teeth thoroughly, which was not so much to get the after taste of fecal matter off my tongue, but so my breath wouldn’t reek of shit.
Afterward, I dropped the tooth brush into the sink, rinsed my mouth, and then turned around, opened the shower curtain, and proceeded to take a shower.
And that was when I laid eyes on her for the first time.
My heart thrashed against my ribs, and my chest felt as though it would collapse, I was so scared. Her presence chilled me, like a sharpened icicle scraping against my spine. I backed away a few steps, but she remained where she stood, pinning me down with her black, abysmal eyes. She was a tall, willowy Asian woman in her late twenties with a flawless face, upturned nose, and high cheekbones. She might have been stunningly beautiful, I suppose, if not for those eyes, which somehow rendered her almost unbearable to look at. In her eyes, there were no whites, no irises, nor pupils. Her eyes were just two black orbs locked in a chilling gaze. She never once said a word, but her thoughts and emotions spoke volumes. The very second I caught glimpse of her, I could somehow sense the rage burning within her, the hatred she held for me, festering within her tortured soul.
"Wh-who are you?"
White smoke drifted from her nose and parted lips, and one word echoed through my mind:
Hikaru.
And with that she was gone, vanished as quickly as she had appeared.
While the shower had cleaned me off adequately, it hadn't relaxed me one bit.
I was still naked when I went into my bedroom and still shaken up by what I had seen. I couldn't get her image out of my mind. Those pitch-black abysmal eyes haunted me. Upon entering my bedroom, I flinched back after having seen her silhouette, and nearly shrieked in terror. I turned away immediately, covering my eyes and whimpered fearfully. I flipped on the light switch and she was gone. I breathed a small sigh of relief, but my heart was still racing, and my whole body was still broken out in gooseflesh.
My father scoffed at me inside my head: Get a grip, you pansy faggot bitch! You just got back from a motel room, where you just about butchered a woman, killing her, and still continued to rape her bleeding corpse. It was a hooker you did this to. You went and fucked her corpse long into the night and got her to bleed and shit all over you and then you went and ATE her shit. She could have had AIDS for all you know, and probably did, yet you didn’t let THAT small fact stop you. And now you're freaked out because you THOUGHT you saw some Asian chick standing in the shower who, I should remind you, probably wasn't REALLY there to begin with. Goddamn it, Alex, I didn't raise you to be such a fuckin' wuss!
My father's voice offered no comfort whatsoever.
I slept that night with the lights on.
I spent much of the night tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep. Perhaps the bright bedroom lights bearing down upon me had something to do with my inability to doze off, but I couldn't bring myself to turn it off. I was scared enough as it was, and that was mostly what had been keeping me up that night. Each time my eyes closed, I could see her face, the image as clear as a photograph, the chilling gaze of her paralyzing black, empty eyes gnawing away at my soul.
Eventually, I was able to doze off, drifting very slowly toward slumber, and Hikaru haunted my dreams...
In my dream, Hikaru pervaded my field of vision. At first, she was all I saw. Her eyes met mine and I sensed hatred spurning in her eyes, the anger and bitter resentment she held for me, for my father, and anyone else who was even remotely similar to us.
"What do you fucking want with me?" I asked desperately. I wanted to cry, but whenever such an urge came to me, my father stepped in seemingly from beyond the grave and I would have flashbacks of how he would always beat me and scold and taunt me when I was a kid for even thinking about doing something as weak and effeminate.
(I'll give ya somethin' to cry about, you fuckin' faggot! SMACK!)
And so, in the end, I just couldn't do it. It was physically impossible and still is to this very day...even in my dreams.
Hikaru said nothing; just stood there.
Suddenly I could hear a series of punches form behind. Hard blows gradually became louder and wetter. Fists thrashed away at fracturing bones and tenderized meat. For some reason, I shuddered at the sound of these wet packing blows.
I turned around and found myself back in the kitchen of the house I had grown up in, with everything as had been left before my parents had died. Once more, I had been a fifteen-year-old boy startled awake by a sudden clamor downstairs, only to find what should have been traumatizing for most kids who lay eyes upon such a scene for the first time after living many years in blissful ignorance of their father’s violent tendencies. It had been something I was used to, however, for my father was doing what had come naturally to him, and what had earned him my awe throughout childhood.
His fists swelled as beads of my mother’s blood dripped along his knuckles, and his eyes blazed in such exquisite rage that blinded him to my presence and left him in an erotic trance. My mother’s face was masked in blood as her dazed eyes wandered around the room in her usual disoriented trance. She never cried in pain nor pled for mercy, but stood there on her knees, her body trembling as she took each blow that rained before her with the utmost indifference. The events occurred just as they had before, and I could see my father lifted my mother by the throat and continue to pummel her, until that fatal, bone-grinding snap that ended his reverie, and my mother fell dead upon the linoleum floor.
Seeing my mother killed at the hands of my father had been the only event in my life that had ever come close to truly horrifying me, and was the closest thing akin to outrage that I had ever experienced. Yet at the same time, I felt now the same sense of thrilling wonderment at having seen someone killed before my very eyes for the first time, and there was that fleeting moment of enhanced worship I felt for my father had having committed such a heinous deed and proving his strength over my mother once and for all by inadvertently murdering her.
Once more I saw the rage fade from my father’s eyes as sobering disbelief washed over him and his eyes gazed, transfixed at my mother, who now lay dead and bleeding by his feet. My father remained frozen in time as his eyes peered down upon my mother’s corpse, his mouth dropping open as he stood in shock. The events had been shocking for me as well, yet at the same time what I had seen could have stimulated ejaculation had I not felt so vulnerable to my father’s presence. He then looked up at me with a glow of frantic perplexity within his eyes, and asked what I had been doing up so late.
My parents vanished before my eyes.
Hikaru's face remained cold and expressionless, but I could feel the anger festering within her. Her rage was a potent energy searing my flesh, burning me alive.
I killed your father.
The voice that spoke inside my head was my own, but the thought was hers.
"What're you talkin' about?" I stammered, scared and very confused. "My father died of a heart attack!"
A piece of paper appeared in my hand and I looked it over. It was type written in ALLCAPS. Just one sentence:
I GAVE HIM A HEART ATTACK.
As I looked up after reading the note, a dense fog began to blanket the thickening darkness, like a translucent layer of snow, thinning and petering out in some patches while consolidating into a mast of whiteness in other spots. The fog billowed and danced before my eyes before finally dissolving into nothingness and leaving me completely in the void.
For a while there was silence, and then my ears picked up a faint drone that soon manifested itself into piercing shrieks of terror. Such frightful sounds were like the scraping of a rusty nail over a chalkboard, yet seemed somehow almost erotic at the same time because of the shear agony they conveyed. The screaming broke apart and was now like little pinpricks stabbing against my eardrums, echoing just loud enough to cause a mild strain within my ears until they ceased entirely.
Silence now as well as darkness. Sweet oblivion.
I then saw my father standing naked before me and his nude form stiffened with panic so that he was completely unable to move. The contorted features over his whitened face spoke volumes of his terror and I looked upon him now with that same sense of disgust I had felt when I watched him die back in 1977. This was the man who had beaten me and scared me so badly when I was a child? This was the man who I had admired for his strength, ferocity, and brutality? No longer did he appear to be God, for in this pathetic display of terror he appeared only weak and vulnerable. He was nothing more than a pathetic coward no better than a woman. Looking at him now produced no feelings of intimidation or awe, only feelings of nausea and stark disappointment.
Hikaru reappeared and her presence lit up this darkened void with her eerily radioactive glow. My father’s terror became my own and I no longer retched at his disgusting display of cowardice, for now I shared it and wept my own fearful tears. My father flinched and backed away, wincing as he moved in slow motion, his every movement casting a bright burst of light that seared my eyes. Hikaru said nothing, but as she lurched toward my father, I could hear snakes hissing from a distance and I could feel serpents slithering through my bowels.
Hikaru rested her right hand over my father’s chest and his flesh rippled like water as her fingertips sank in. There was no bloodshed, only a heavy spasm circulating through his stomach to the small of his back. His chest folded and collapsed inwardly as Hikaru’s hand plunged through and disappeared below the wrist. She stood briefly in this position, her hand remaining completely submerged in my father’s chest, and then finally pulled slowly to extract the hand. My father’s chest immediately returned to its former condition, without a single wound, blemish, nor a drop of blood to reveal what had happened.
There was not a drop of blood upon Hikaru’s hand either and she stood in eerie calm as she held my father’s beating heart in her palm. Her eyes peered down upon the heart and then she looked at me, and although her dark eyes remained expressionless, I somehow sensed a hidden mirth, an unseen grin of triumph.
When I awoke the next morning, my sheets were drenched in urine. This alone shouldn’t be surprising, and as I explained before, I like wetting the bed and look forward to waking up each morning soaked in piss.
What was different this morning was I had awoken in absolute terror, screaming and sweating as my heart thrashed against my chest. Normally, I can't remember anything about any of my dreams (if I even have any). But this time, I could remember the dream vividly. And it wouldn't fade from my memory the way dreams are supposed to, but instead remained locked within my psyche, haunting me to this very day (which is how I was able to recall it in such vivid detail just now). I thought of what Hikaru had told me in that dream, about how she had taken credit for my father’s heart attack, and shivered, deeply distressed, so much so that I could take no consolation, not even from the urine-laden sheets and blankets I lay in.
I looked over toward my alarm clock and saw 5:00 shine in red digital numerals over the face of the clock. Dawn's early light was starting to penetrate through my bedroom window. It had been one in the morning when I returned from Motel 6. The shower had lasted about a half hour, so I didn't get to bed until 1:30 am. And I had been tossing and turning for several hours so I couldn't have fallen asleep until around four in the morning. I got no more than an hour's sleep (perhaps less), yet instead of being drowsy, I was on the edge, very hyper. I couldn't slow my racing heart down, but couldn't bring myself to get out of bed, so I lay there, soaking in warm piss, trying to absorb what little comfort it could give me.
I lay there, staring as dawn's shadow's reflected off my ceiling, as the image of Hikaru remained frozen in my mind's eye, her dark abysmal eyes condemning me just as they had condemned my father so long ago.
You're even worse than your father, a voice whispered in the rustling breeze outside. I already killed your father a long time ago. And now, I'm coming to kill you as well!
She was gone then, for the time being, but her haunting image never left my mind, nor did her damning words.