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Send to FriendI needed to kill again!
It was a simple, yet undeniable fact. And no matter how hard I tried to fight, I knew that the urge would get me in the end, that it had strengthened with each day that passed since the night that I had killed Heather.
This is what I mean when I say that I am not in control of my life or my actions, for you see, I knew that murder was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself after a while. I am not amoral. I know the difference between right and wrong. But when it comes to the kill, there’s always something inside me that pushes me in that direction. In jail, it isn’t a problem because the opportunity has never arisen. When I get out, though, I know I’ll kill again. The addiction is just too strong.
Within a month, I had once more succumbed to the addiction. The addiction to coke was quickly and easily given up cold turkey. At first, it was difficult, and the withdrawal symptoms seemed at times unbearable, but I resisted the urge, and eventually the addiction to cocaine faded altogether. Yet the addiction to murder was the one that had truly gripped me, the one I couldn’t shake.
The only question now was whom was I going to kill?
As I continued to work with Ellen at Mobil Mart, I guess you could say I began to develop a “crush” on her. But that doesn’t sound right, especially given the way I feel about women. I didn’t have any feelings for Ellen, but rather experienced urges when I was around her. I wanted to hurt her the way I had hurt Heather. But Ellen was strictly off-limits, not because I cared about her (I didn’t), but because I knew her. Heather had been just a hooker who had no association with me and that’s how I had gotten away with killing her. There had been no visible motive, no association, nothing leading the police to me. But I had been working with Ellen, so there was that connection. It was safer for me to keep her out of this.
I needed to find someone else entirely.
And my chosen victim was yet another prostitute. Her name was Rosie.
Rosie wasn’t really much like Heather. For one thing, she was a bit older so there was none of that timidity or modesty that had afflicted Heather. Rosie no doubt had been more experienced in her line of work and was more comfortable with the whole setup, perhaps even liked it. Not that there’s anything not to like about getting paid for getting laid. Rosie was somewhere in her mid-twenties, with dark eyes, an olive complexion, and bubble-gum colored hair that billowed in the heavy breeze as she ran toward my car, smiling as the light from the lampposts lit up her face. I lowered the passenger window and she put her head in, her mischievous grin widening. “Hey, lookin’ for a time tonight?”
“Depends,” I said, feeling a bit suspicious, though my paranoia was unwarranted. “You’re not a cop, are you?” It was a concern I had had with Heather as well, but I hadn’t brought it up with her because at the time I had less to lose. I’d get arrested for soliciting a prostitute, but they never would have linked me to any murders because I hadn’t committed any yet. This time around, I had previously taken a life, and if a cop were to arrest me even for a misdemeanor and take my prints, they might have been able to get a match. I felt I had to ask. I couldn’t take the chance.
The hooker only smiled at me and giggled. “No, I’m not a cop, silly.” She took a step back and opened her coat wide and I could see her voluptuous breasts vibrating through her silken blouse as her hardened nipples poked through the fabric. “See? No badge.”
I smiled, relieved as I reached over and unlocked the passenger side door. “Get in.”
She opened the car door and then took a seat.
“Name’s Rosie,” she said, and put out her hand.
I took it, holding it firmly as we shook hands. I raised her hand and kissed it to prove how much of a gentleman I was. I can be somewhat charming when I wanted to, I suppose, to lull them into a false sense of security, get them nice and vulnerable, right where I want them to be. It was a ploy I had admirably played on Heather as well a month earlier, and it was a skill I had honed throughout my role playing games when I was in my twenties. Throughout my twenties, I never thought I would actually kill anyone (though the latent desire still festered within my psyche), but even then I knew that charm and temptation was the perfect bait to lure most women into my trap. While I’ve always loathed romance, I knew that it still could be exploited to get women, even prostitutes, into my clutches so they wouldn’t suspect anything was wrong. This was the game I played with Rosie, and it worked like a charm.
“Wow! You’re much more a gentleman than most of the johns,” she said, almost blushing, but not quite.”
I smiled. “Yes, you’ll find I’m much different from the rest.”
And then I drove off.
Whatever confidence and trust she might have held in the situation at hand was vanquished once I got her in the position I wanted her in. Unlike Heather, Rosie went all too willingly, which was perhaps her downfall if you look at it a certain way…not that Heather’s resistance had done her the least bit of good in the end. But Rosie had willingly restrained herself without hesitation or reluctance on the bed, cuffing both hands to the headboard, with the pillowcase stuffed in her mouth. Through it all, she remained calm, serene, most likely assuming that this was just a form of S&M.
It wasn’t until I brought out the knife, with the edge gleaming dimly in the light of the motel room, that Rosie began to panic. Her eyes rose in terror as she tried to scream, but the pillowcase muffled her cries for help so all she could get out were a few quiet whimpers and sobs as tears started to flow from her eyes. She shook her head, jerking it right and left and begging me not to go through with this, but I continued my approach.
I began to climb onto the bed and she threw her feet out in frenzied protest, kicking me out of the way as she continued to utter a series of muffled cries and silent screams. As I lunged toward her, she drove the heel of her foot into my face and I could feel my cheekbone bending from the impact, almost stretching and snapping apart from the sudden blow as bursts of warm, aching pain flooded my face. My eyes watered as I reeled back from the force of her kick. I careened off the foot of the bed and the back of my head struck the bureau smartly, leaving me briefly dazed.
As the stars faded before my field of vision, I looked back at Rosie, who struggled to scream above a muffled whimper, her legs kicking and flailing as though she were frantically pedaling a bicycle up a steep hill. The handcuffs rattled noisily as she struggled in vain to free herself. Despite being gagged, she was making way too much noise for my liking. If one of the other guests happened to hear what was going on through these paper-thin walls, I was fucked. I had to shut her up quick.
I massaged my fingers along the sore spot on my face where she had kicked me, groaning as I felt the early onset of swelling. “A feisty little bitch, aren’t you?” I muttered.
With the knife still in hand (I hadn’t dropped it when she kicked me, and my grip around the hilt only tightened now), I drove myself toward her once more. Again, she tried to kick me away, but this time, both my arms scooped her legs and kept them restrained as I fell on top of her.
Rosie squirmed and wriggled frantically beneath me as I pinned her to the bed, managing to kick her legs out from my arms but still unable to shake me off. She squeezed her teary eyes tightly shut and jerked her head to the side, looking away with a few choked sobs. Both of my hands gripped the hilt of my knife now and as I drove my stiffened cock into her cunt, the blade of my knife plunged deep into her chest, penetrating into the area between her breasts as my penis penetrated between her vaginal lips. I uttered a sexual moan, pumping my erection into her vagina again and again, and with each mighty thrust of my cock, I tore the knife from her wound and then brought it down once more in a swift arc, driving it deeper into her chest. Each time I yanked the knife out of her chest, another line of blood flung against the wall. More blood oozed profusely from the six or seven deep stab wounds I had inflicted and even more trickled in crimson threads from her nose. I could hear some hard gurgling noises, which resonated from her through the pillowcase gag as the blood rose up her through and she looked at me, pleading through hazy eyes.
I looked up, nowhere near the brink of orgasm just yet, but getting there and having the time of my life on the journey.
It was then, as I lifted the knife into the air, the blood dripping from the tip of the blade in red droplets, that I saw the shape—a murky outline—of the face of Hikaru. A glaring flash of her reflection lit up within the wall paper, the apparition of a surreal and discolored painting of an Asian woman with coal black eyes that was gone within the blink of an eye, yet still enough to leave me utterly rightened. I could now sense her evil presence within the room, a chilling invisible entity prickling against my flesh.
“Where are you?” I nearly cried, my voice quavering. “You stupid fucking bitch, where the fuck are you?”
The knife slipped from my sweaty fingers.
With her last ounce of strength, Rosie lifted her left foot into the air, very slowly, with the limb trembling in the air, as though a fifty-pound weight had been attached to the ankle. Slowly, sluggishly, she swung her foot to the side and it connected with my head, around my temple. It was a soft, subtle nudge, but still enough to send me careening over the side of the bed. As I fell, my naked shoulder brushed against the coarse fibers of the carpet below. I quickly rose to my feet and groaned, shaking in fear as I looked ahead, across the dark room. “You fucking bitch,” I whimpered, my voice stammering despite my best effort to hide my fear.
It was then that I saw Hikaru. She stood around five-foot three, the average height for a woman, yet still managed to appear a giant, growing taller, toppling over me and ready to crush me. As she looked toward me, her black, chilling gaze left me paralyzed and trembling. What do you WANT with me? I tried to ask, but my jaw was locked, my lips sealed shut. Inside my chest, my lungs seemed to close and harden, leaving me unable to breathe. My heart kept racing, however, as sweat oozed from every pore of my skin, which had broken out in gooseflesh, and my vision never dimmed.
As frightened as I was, I couldn’t look away from her. It was as though her flesh and hair cast an eerie golden glow in the dark room. Yet her eyes remained like two black, empty holes within her face. Looking into her eyes was looking straight into the abyss, into the darkness of my own soul. And somehow, she got inside me, inside my head, and took the evil within my heart, that abomination deep down inside that made me kill and left me full of hate, and manifested from it the crippling fear that overcame me whenever she was present.
What happened next was what I can only describe as a spiritual transference. I don’t know what happened to Rosie or where her soul went off to, but my soul was transferred into her body. All her pain and fear was injected into me. I became Rosie. I became my own victim. And there was nothing surreal or dreamlike about the experience. It wasn’t an out-of-body experience, or a dream, or a drug-induced hallucination. For those two, horrifying minutes I was Rosie Sheffield, simple as that.
I stare ahead as my vision begins to blur, to gray out as my mind fades in and out of consciousness. I want to scream but can’t because of the pillowcase stuffed in my mouth, keeping me gagged and almost choking me, as one of the corners tickles the back of my throat. Still, I am unable to breathe and can only struggle in vain to suck down air into two collapsed lungs. I am suffocating, drowning in blood as it rises up my throat and floods from both nostrils. Yet despite all of this my heart seems to beat faster and faster as the panic increases, taking control and blotting out all coherent thought. I struggle to free myself but can now barely move at all. I can hear the handcuffs rattling, but the sound is distant, echoing from faraway. I am fatigued, yet tense at the same time. As blood gushes from each of the five or six stab wounds, it presses down like a warm, liquid weight on my chest while it continues to spill over the mattress.
Even now, as I am barely able to squirm, my legs twitching faintly from dying nerves, I still can’t believe that this could be happening to ME, that I could be dying at the hands of a psychopath, deceived as I have been. The risk was always one that I tried to prepare for, but nothing seems to prepare one for…for THIS.
My eyes veer sluggishly to the right and I can see my captor—Alex Gordon, he said he name was—standing over me, grinning, naked, his erect penis jutting like a metal rod from his crotch. I see him now as the abomination he truly is, as though Satan himself is standing before me, torturing me unjustly while the sick, sadistic bastard enjoys ever second of it. Being in the presence of such evil is as frightening as the asphyxiation I suffer from now. Knowing of his evil, that he is a devil incarnate, deceiving me, violating me, torturing and killing me leaves me not enraged but in a panicked frenzy. Even as my last few ounces of life become fleeting, I struggle both to understand why he has done this to me and to try to escape the hell he has put me through.
And it is the ghastly face of Alex Gordon that is the last thing I see before going under, my soul plunging deep into the void.
And it was as I experienced Rosie’s death first-hand that I was then transported back into my own body. My eyes fluttered open and Hikaru was gone, but my panic remained, coursing through my veins, albeit fleetingly. I fell to my hands and knees and broke down crying not in sympathy for my victim but for the horror that I was forced to endure.
“Fucking bitch, stay the fuck outta my head!” I whimpered and sobbed. “Fucking mind rapist, where the fuck did you go? Goddamn it, stay the fuck outta my head!”
I rose to my feet and approached Rosie, who still lay bleeding on the bed, but now motionless except for a faint twitch of her right leg.
In spite of the horror I had endured at having to live those last few agonizing minutes in the shoes of my victim, I wanted to go on with the murder and the whole gruesome ritual of it all. Perhaps it was out of a longing for revenge for what Hikaru had put me through. Or perhaps knowing firsthand the suffering I put my victims through made the deed all the more enticing. Most likely, it was a little bit of both.
But going on would be futile and meaningless, for I had lost the sexual desire. My penis had gone flaccid already and although I hadn’t achieved orgasm, at present another erection would be impossible to attain because I was still so terrified and vulnerable. It would be a moot point regardless, because Rosie was already dead. She gazed up at the ceiling with glassy eyes while tracks of tears glistened in her blood engorged face, and her mouth remained contorted from muffled screams, the lips twisted around the now crimson pillowcase that kept her gagged. The rising and falling of her chest had ceased completely and she lay naked and motionless in her own blood, which was now a scarlet mask over the lower half of her face and left her torso completely drenched. The only movement now was that faint twitch of a dying nerve.
“Thought you could save her, did you?” I whispered. “Too late, Hikaru.” I chuckled silently to myself. “Too little too late.”
And then my grin faltered, for although I had killed Rosie, it had been an even bigger disappointment than with Heather, because this time around I couldn’t even complete the process of my fantasies. She hadn’t been mangled nearly enough to my liking and I hadn’t slashed her breasts either. Nor was I able to continue raping her after her death. Nor could I climax and spray her with my semen in a final act of post mortem humiliation. I could do none of these things because Hikaru had gotten in my way.
I hated Hikaru more than ever now.
Yet while the hatred boiled through my veins, I could feel no anger, only bleak disappointment, which later turned into an even worse depression than I had felt after I had killed Heather.
I merely stood there, on my feet, trembling while my mouth hung open, quivering. I was drained physically, emotionally, and spiritually and were I to be killed or arrested at that moment, I probably wouldn’t have put up much protest or cared in the least. But of course, no one came and I merely stood alone, naked, and covered in blood, gazing at the door across the motel room, never blinking. By the time I finally did move to get my cloths, the blood was a sticky, hardening resin clinging to my flesh and pulling tautly at my bodily hair as I slowly put my cloths back on, but I didn’t care too much.
I took a final look at Rosie, half expecting her to begin her struggle once again, rattling the handcuffs that kept her restrained while struggling in vain to scream and cry for help through the pillowcase. But alas, she remained still, and by now even the twitching of her leg had ceased. And once more as I looked at her lying dead, her body and the mattress now saturated in blood, bile, and shit, yet her body not having been mutilated nearly to my satisfaction, I was reminded once again of how I had failed.
I sighed despondently. Although I knew that eventually I would kill again, that I would try again and again until I could achieve what I was after and that the real deal would be just as intense and erotic as my fantasies, I somehow knew it to be a fruitless struggle. I had no choice but to keep at it again and again until I got it right, and each time I went through the cycle, I’d end up right here all over again—alone, depressed, and feeling damned.
Not that that bitch Hikaru was of any help!
I pulled the door open and then pulled it gently shut after I felt a cool night breeze wafting over my face. As I opened the door again, I looked down at the DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging over the doorknob and wondered absently how long such a sign would divert the maid services and other motel staff. Not forever, of course, but no doubt long enough for me to slip away.
Such thoughts had crossed my mind, of course, but hadn’t been very compelling and merely dissolved in my deep dejection as I slogged from the motel room to my car.