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Send to FriendIt wasn’t that I felt guilt or remorse for my crimes. For even now, emotions such as remorse are completely foreign to me, and I sometimes wonder out of idle curious what it must be like for someone to actually feel guilty about something they’ve done in the past or to experience regret or remorse. Perhaps my feelings of damnation after the fact that I had killed might be construed as guilt in their own ways, though I had never really thought them to be.
In truth, I always felt so much worse when I wasn’t killing. It was during the month-long intervals between kills when my depression and feelings of emptiness were at their absolute worst. They always became worse as time went on; the farther into the past the murders had taken place, the emptier I felt and the more meaningless and insignificant my life became. The only few times I have ever truly been alive in my life were when I was in the midst of killing Heather and Rosie, and soon after the deeds had been done, I was right back where I started from before, with nothing to show for my efforts and no satisfaction. When I wasn’t killing, I just drifted around aimlessly through life as each day blended into the next, until it seemed like I were repeating the same miserable day again and again for eternity. I struggled to find a good reason to even bother waking up, to not throw myself out the window of my apartment and end my meaningless existence, and then I work both of my jobs for the entire day, eat from time to time, come home, fall asleep. A day in my life might as well have been a movie (an incredibly boring one that no one would’ve wanted to see), in which you watch it to the end and then rewind it and watch it all over again.
Through it all, the urge to kill rose higher within me with each passing day. With the increasing emptiness I felt, I wanted to kill more and more. For weeks I struggled to suppress these urges, and had been successful. I filled myself in an empty hope that perhaps someday I might find something else that might give me the satisfaction I needed, to fill the void left behind by my disappointment in the murder. But of course, nothing ever did. I lack the necessary creative edge to ever become an artist or writer, the way some serial killers do, and none of the other hobbies I tried ever came close to filling the void within my heart. And in the end, my desires won the war and took control.
Yet while on the inside I was falling apart, dying with each passing second, on the outside, I kept my rose-colored glasses, hiding my pain, anguish, and depression, and appearing as a normal, average joe to anyone who might be watching. I even started being nice to Ellen, and had apologized to her for the way I had been acting the day after I had killed Rosie:
“I’m really sorry about how I treated you yesterday,” I had said to her. “It was totally unprofessional of me and there’s no excuse for my behavior.”
“It’s okay, Alex, we all have a bad day,” she replied, smiling.
I nodded in agreement. “Yes and yesterday was definitely a bad day for me. But don’t worry. I’m feeling much better today.” And my smile widened as if to illustrate; it wasn’t a mischievous grin, but rather one beaming of warmth and elation. “And I’m in a much better mood today, too. I just wanted to apologize, to get rid of whatever tension might have built up between us.”
“It’s perfectly okay,” she said, still smiling. “I forgive you.”
And after that, we became friends.
It was then that I had figured out why satisfaction had eluded me for so long. The two women I had killed were easy pickings because they were nothing more than prostitutes. They were paid to please men any way possible, and had I wanted to, I probably could have found a hooker who was willing to allow me to do the things I had done to Heather and had tried to do to Rosie. I knew next to nothing about either of them and had completely depersonalized the murder, so I thought perhaps that was where the problem lay. Ellen was someone I knew. I didn’t care about her, of course, but she was someone I was at least familiar with, a part of my life, someone I saw at work every day. While I had only seen one side of both prostitutes (or perhaps two, in the case of Heather: her timid side of inexperience in her chosen “career field,” and her relaxed, stoned side), I had seen a few of Ellen’s different sides. There was her shy and timid side, which was displayed when she first met people. Then her talkative, more sociable and perhaps slightly feisty and sassy side, which was displayed once she got to know you better and was more at ease around you. I knew that she was a college student, hoping to get a degree in Psychology, so she could go on and gain a further understanding of the human mind and to help those who are feeling depressed, suffer from anxiety, or have other psychological issues. Her life wasn’t yet an open book to me, but I knew enough about her for the time being. It was a start.
Ellen would be perfect for my next victim.
It’s all about trust, after all, I had said to Vicky the day after my second murder.
The words rang all too true. For the prostitutes had never trusted me, not entirely, anyway. To them, I was just another john; someone they didn’t know, and therefore couldn’t trust explicitly. They did what I asked of them simply because I was paying them to, and the customer is always right. Yet at heart, both hookers knew of the possibility that one of the johns they serviced might be a psychopath who really wanted to do them in, even if they denied such fears or banished them to the back of their minds, and must’ve known also that I could have potentially been that psychopath. There was no genuine trust in that relationship. It was just another business transaction.
Yet with Ellen, it was possible to gain her trust. I could be especially nice and charming with her, help her out at work whenever possible, and make every effort to make her happy. If I could gain her trust, then shatter it upon killing her, it would be the ultimate murder, and satisfaction would finally truly be at hand, for Ellen’s death would be that much more horrible, because she was tortured sadistically at the hands of someone she thought was her friend. Shattering someone else’s trust had never been at the forefront of my fantasies before, but now it seemed like a wet dream to me.
And very soon, I’d hoped, it would become a reality.
A month after I had killed Rosie, I decided it was time to ask Ellen out.
“Hey, Ellen, how are you this morning?” I asked (not the most original pickup line, I know), as I approached her that morning, beginning my shift at Mobil Mart.
My heart was racing, but there was not a drop of perspiration, a stutter in my voice, nor any jittery limbs anywhere on my body. I was not in any way apprehensive, insecure, or fearing the humiliation of rejection and the potential tension that might spark between us as a result of my asking her out. I knew even before asking that she would say “yes” and I was excited for what would happen.
It would still be another twelve hours before I could even get started with her, and already I could feel the rush of adrenalin. With anticipation came impatience. Satisfaction was so close. I could almost reach out and grab it, hold it in my hands, bask in its warm glow. So close and yet so far. I wanted to start now! I wanted to rape and kill the bitch right here at Mobil Mart. But the time and place were both completely wrong for far too many reasons.
Just a little while longer…twelve measly hours…
“Good morning, Alex,” she replied, her warm smile beaming in the early morning light.
Oh the things I wanted to do to her. I’d take great pleasure in wiping that smile from her face, destroying her innocence. The anguish on her face as she finally came to realize that her trust in me was what led to her downfall would be both priceless and exquisite. I put my hands deep within my pockets and began to poke my fingers at my growing erection through the cloth. The sexual tension became excruciatingly blissful torture. I was so tempted to rush into the bathroom and masturbate, but I didn’t want to waste a single drop of semen.
“I was wondering,” I began, and then paused. “Do you have anything planned for tonight?”
Ellen shook her head and shrugged. “Nothing planned.”
“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” I asked. “Not trying to become a couple or anything, just to get to know each other.”
“Sure, what time would be good for you?”
“How about I stop by your place at 6:00pm?”
“That works for me.”
“6:00pm it is, then.”
And just like that, Ellen Blaise’s fate was sealed.
And so, I came to pick her up at 6:00pm, just as we had planned. We ate dinner at Pizza Hut. (Since this wasn’t a real date, there was no need for the formalities of an overpriced, romantic restaurant to wine and dine the girl—we were just “friends” getting to know each other a little bit better). After Pizza Hut, we strolled around the city, and even saw a movie (though I no longer remember what the movie was or even what it was about, but it’s really not that important). She seemed to have a genuine good time that night, and I pretended to have a good time, though in reality, all I wanted, all I could think about, was attaining satisfaction. I was so tempted to do the deed, but couldn’t. Not in public! Too many witnesses. It had to be in private. Oh, but I was so sorely tempted! And with each passing minute, it became harder and harder to control myself.
Just a little while longer, I told myself repeatedly. Almost there…
We arrived back at Ellen’s apartment at approximately 9:30pm. I pulled the car slowly to a halt in the parking slot that was right in front of the twelve-story apartment complex, killed the engine, and looked to the side, at Ellen, and asked: “Did you have a good time tonight?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. Did you?”
I nodded, smiling. “Yes, I had a great time. You‘re really a fun person to be with and I hope we can get to know each other and become really good friends in the future.”
Ellen giggled and blushed as she stepped out of the car. “Thank you.”
“Well, guess I’d better get going. See you tomorrow.”
Ellen frowned as she stood by the open passenger side door. “You can come up to my room for a few minutes and I can show you around, if you want.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” I replied, feigning reluctance so as not to sound too eager.
“It’s not a problem, really,” she insisted.
“Are you sure?”
Ellen nodded. “I’m sure.”
I grinned as I pulled the key out of the ignition and stepped out of the car. “Okay, then, sure, why not?”
She had trusted me enough to let me into her apartment, I observed. This took on a whole new level of personalization that my previous two murders had lacked. Before, I had killed in motel rooms that held no meaning or significance either for myself or for my victim. But this time it would be in the place where my victim called home, her sanctuary, where she felt safe from all the predators of the outside world. The more I thought about it, the more excited I grew. To trust someone enough to let them into your home isn’t the same as trusting them with your innermost secrets—that which can leave you vulnerable, perhaps could potentially destroy you. But it was a good enough starting point for me.
This is getting better all the time! I thought with wild exhilaration.
Ellen Blaise lived on the tenth floor of the apartment complex. The main window of her living room gave her a clear view of the city beyond. I could see the dazzling lights of skyscrapers shining back at me as I gazed off into the night, and a crescent moon hovering just above me while starlight twinkled in the black sky.
As I stared out into space, essentially, I shuttered in fear, for I could have sworn I had seen the imprint of Hikaru’s face engraved in the night sky above, gazing down upon me, her face like an undiscovered constellation, an eerie pattern in the stars, yet the image remaining clearly visible once I had seen it and connected the dots. It was a nearly perfect outlined rendition of her face, cursing me from above. As I gazed into the night sky, paralyzed in fear, my exquisite anticipation for the night’s events faltered briefly, before I blinked my eyes, and the constellation of Hikaru was gone. The stars were once more only stars; nothing more then specks of light from the blackened sky shining from billions of light years away, making no overt pattern whatsoever.
I was alone once again, except for my victim-to-be.
The flat was fairly small, but still big enough for two people to reside. Those who lived here had been Ellen and her roommate and older sister Holly Blaise.
"Holly’s out for the night,” Ellen said, “so we got the place to ourselves.
I rejoiced at the news. It was just Ellen and I. Unless the walls were paper-thin, no one should be able to hear what was going on. There would be no intervention this time around, no one to interfere with what had to be done. I had been sure of it. A spark of celebration lit up inside me as I turned toward the side, my hand caressing against the pink drapes at the side of the main window, my feet rubbing against the plush beige carpeting.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” she said. “I’m not one to go all the way on a first date—”
“That’s okay, since this isn’t a real date.”
“—but maybe we can have a little fun,” she finished, keeping a straight face.
“You’re such a tease,” I said, laughing, and thought: But that’s okay, because whether you’re the type who puts out or not, I plan on getting exactly what I want from you one way or the other, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it!
Ellen shrugged. “Well hey, you know how it is. You can’t have sex with just anybody these days. Aside from pregnancy, there’s the AIDS virus to worry about now, and I’m sure we can both agree, you definitely don’t want that.”
“No, I hear you,” I feigned agreement; in reality, I didn’t really care if I got AIDS or not, as I didn’t really care much if I lived or died, and cared less if I were to somehow infect someone else. “But I’m pretty sure I’m not HIV-positive. I can get tested if you want.”
“Thanks, but if it’s all just the same, I think we should wait until we got to know each other a little better. As you said before, this isn’t even an official date, and we don’t even consider ourselves a real couple yet.”
I nodded. “Okay, I can live with that.”
“Thank you,” she smiled. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Sure, what do you have?”
“Hold on and let me check,” she said, and went into the kitchen.
I followed her.
Her kitchen had all the bare essentials for any kitchen: a sink to wash the dishes (by hand, of course, since there was no dishwasher), cupboards above the sink to put the dishes in, as well as a refrigerator and stove, all needed for food. The kitchen was small, but large enough to accommodate one person at a time. More than that and it started feeling clogged, cramped, and movement became restricted. It was bigger than one of the bathrooms in an airplane, of course, but not by much, and I could just imagine a claustrophobic person driven insane trapped in here. I stood calmly enough, though, if you could excuse my growing sexual arousal, impatience, and excitement, hoping my stiffening erection wouldn’t poke Ellen in the ass as she bent over, looking through the refrigerator for something to drink.
“All we have is Diet Coke,” she said, her head still in the refrigerator.
“Sure, that’s fine,” I said, grinning, as the palm of my hand rested over her marble countertop.
Where I had stood was a block full of her knives. Nothing fancy, of course, just a cheap set, low quality, with wooden handles that were now starting to crack and splinter, but they still worked and got the job done. It was just my luck that she had put them where she had, on the left side, just within my reach. Had it been the other side of the sink, I would have had to squeeze past her, and she would know what I was up to. But in their current position, I could grab one now without her even seeing it. Had it been in winter, and I had been wearing a sweatshirt, I could have easily stuffed one of the bigger knives—such as the butcher knife, which could easily have gotten the job done the way I wanted it—into my sleeve. Of course no one wears sweatshirts in June; it’s too damn hot. So I had to settle for something smaller. The pairing knife was pretty small, and I wasn’t sure if the blade would be heavy enough to cut through bone, but it was all I could risk grabbing, and at the very least I knew I could cut and gouge at her flesh and eyes with it. My trembling hand closed around the wooden hilt of the pairing knife as I pulled it from the block and held it in hand for a few minutes, noticing the rust and early stages of corrosion over the carbon steel blade. I quickly slipped the knife into my pocket just as Ellen closed the refrigerator door and rose to look up at me with two sixteen-ounce cans of Diet Coke in hand.
“I hope you don’t mind diet,” Ellen said. “It’s all we have. My sister’s diabetic, so we try to stay away from sugary food,” she explained. “I’m not big on sweets anyway, so it’s just as well.”
“I shrugged. “Hey, works for me.”
She handed me one of the cans of Diet Coke and we returned to her living room.
We sat next to each other on her couch, staring at the blank TV screen, each with an open can of Diet Coke in hand, and then she looked at me and said: “I really did have a good time tonight, Alex.”
“Thank you,” I said, grinning. “Guess I’m a nice guy after all.”
She took a sip of the soda as I gently placed my arm around her shoulder. She looked over at me and smiled, blinking as she took another sip and placed her Diet Coke over the carpet, giggling softly as she looked up at me. “What are you doing?”
“Just putting my arm around you, that’s all,” I said, sounding innocently enough, I suppose, as I reached over and kissed the side of her neck. I put my can of Diet Coke down next to her, and then reached over, turning her so her eyes met mine, and I kissed her lips softly.
As I held her, Ellen began to squirm in my arms. “What are you doing? I thought we agreed not to have sex; that it was for the best.”
“I just kissed you, that’s all.”
“I know, but—”
“You can’t get AIDS from kissing, after all. And besides, our mouths were closed when we kissed, so it’s not like we exchanged bodily fluids.”
“I told you I didn’t want to have sex with you,” she said, growing shaky, and I could sense her trust in me and comfort in my presence dwindling. I had to do one of two things: Either apologize and somehow regain her trust, or finish her off here and now. Either way, I had to act fast.
“Inviting me into your home, but not to have sex with me?” I said with a devious grin. “You’re such a tease.”
I rose to my feet, inadvertently kicking over my can of Diet Coke, which toppled over, spilling the cola, which stained deeply into the carpet by my feet, but I didn’t seem to mind. I fished my hand through the pocket where I had placed the pairing knife and felt the carbon steel blade slash open my palm, feeling the warm blood spilling between my fingers, lubricating my grip as hot pain washed over the wound. But I didn’t care much about this either. As I stood over Ellen, the hand in my pocket closed around the wooden hilt of the knife.
“What are you doing?” Ellen asked, stammering fearfully now as I hovered over her, raising my free hand as though I were about to strike out at her, slap her in the face or punch her and knock out a few teeth while leaving her with a bloody lip, a black eye, or a broke nose. She sat there, her lips quivering, unable to say anything, and then: “I think…I think you’d better…better go now…please leave.” And while she didn’t say so herself, I had the feeling that if I had done as she asked, she wouldn’t be showing up at work at Mobil Mart the next morning either, and would probably either quit her job flat out over the phone, or simply disappear altogether from the workplace and seek employment elsewhere. Not that I was planning on letting her out alive, of course. “Please, just leave,” she pleaded again, her voice muffled by sobbing, and I could see tears now flowing from her eyes.
She had fallen for my glib, superficial charm and had placed her trust within me, enough, at least, to allow me into her home. And now it came back to bite her in the ass as she was terrified of me, terrified of the giant that was me, overpowering the worthless bitch, ready to finish her off. I could feel the erection poking painfully through my pants and was tempted to unzip my fly to let it shoot fully outward and grow unrestrained.
Instead, I shot out my free hand and my fingers closed around her throat. She kicked out her legs frantically, struggling to make purchase, perhaps to kick me in the groin, but failing, as the tint of her face began to go from white to a light shade of purple. Her watering eyes squeezed shut and she gasped huskily for breath, struggling in vain to suck air through her blocked passages. Finally, she reached her hand upward, throwing them to my face, and I could feel sudden heat as her fingernails clung loosely and began to dig into my cheeks, hard enough to draw blood. My grip around her neck loosened, then gave way entirely as her claws scraped and slashed across my face, and I cried out painfully and closed my eyes, before my hands closed around the side of her hair, tugging at her hair as I drew her close to me.
“You bitch, you fucking bitch!” I screamed in her face, spittle flying from my lips as the claw marks on my cheeks stung hotly and I could feel warm threads of blood sliding down my flesh and my eyes began to water.
“Please,” she whimpered, tears streaming down her face, “please don’t hurt me.”
It was then that I finally pulled the knife from my pocket. By then, the blood had coated over my hand like a crimson glove, which now became a sticky residue that glued the hilt of the knife to my palm, giving me a slippery, yet at the same time tight grip on the wooden handle. “I’ve had sex with prostitutes, you know,” I said, shaking the blade of the knive in her face so that a few droplets of congealing blood sprinkled along her cheek. “Not only did I fuck them, but it was real rough, and some of their blood, shit, and piss got all over me. Hookers might not always have safe sex, and they fuck so many different people in one night alone, so I’m pretty fucking sure you know what that means, don’t you, bitch!” I grinned, as a few more droplets of blood sprayed along her lips.
Ellen shook her head frantically, sobbing and whimpering and pleading. She inhaled and gasped, then cried shrilling. “Oh God, please, somebody please help me!”
“You were so concerned, weren’t you, and that’s why you wouldn’t have sex with me, but you know what? While I never got tested, for all I know, those damn whores might very well have given me AIDS.” I laughed hysterically, almost demonically as the grin on my face widened and her eyes rose in terror. She opened her mouth to scream again, yet something seemed to snatch her cries for help before she could emit them. I laughed again as my excitement grew, while I let out a sexual moan. All the terror I put her through, the torment and torture I would force her to endure, it was all turning me on, but knowing what I was doing to her, how she had trusted me and how I was now about to destroy her after the torture, it was almost too much for me and I had to struggle not only to hold her still, but also to prevent myself from blowing my load prematurely. I moaned and laughed as my body squirmed and spasms shook down my legs, and then emitted an orgasmic moan once more as sweat glistened over my brow. “Oh yes, and I bled all over this knife as I cut myself, so I’m sure you know what that means as well!”
“Oh God, Jesus…please somebody help me!”
I brought the knife up into the air as a few drops of blood slid off the corroded tip, then brought it down in a swift arc. The knife’s edge grazed across her neck. As the blood began to flow from the crevice in her throat, Ellen’s eyes raised once more, both in horror and disbelieve as she shot her hand to her throat, clasping at the wound tightly, struggling to keep it from bleeding as she opened her mouth once more to scream. This time, she couldn’t scream and instead, let out only a few gasping belches as she began to suck down air frantically, her tongue poking from her lips as her eyes began to water.
I could see a few trickles of blood seeping through her fingers as she struggled to hold her throat closed, and it was then that I noticed a faint white glow emanating from her hand. It was dim at first, but quickly brightened as the rays elongated within the living room, until it was almost blinding. I squinted toward the light, wanting to turn away as it scorched my eyes, but unable to. I saw the tips of fingers protruding from Ellen’s wound, and then a feminine hand, as though a woman were struggling to free herself from inside Ellen’s body. I knew even before she appeared that it had been Hikaru, and my erection went flaccid as the knife slipped from my bloody hand and fell to the floor. Ellen’s head shot violently back, and she appeared to be on the verge of a seizure. It was then that Hikaru appeared, shooting up from the wound on Ellen’s throat. She stood before me, towering over me with that blinding radioactive glow.
I stood motionless and terrified, as Ellen had been before me, frozen in my tracks, unable to move, scream, or even breathe. I wanted to throw out my hand in a warding off gesture, to beg Hikaru not to hurt me as Ellen had begged for me not to hurt her, but I couldn’t move. I could only feel a sense of warmth around my crotch as I wet my pants in terror and the cold drops of sweat secreting around my face as my mouth hung open and my eyes widened in fear and disbelief. I could hear the sounds of snakes hissing and slithering around each other as Hikaru drew closer and put her hand over my cheeks, her touch vile and repulsive. Her coal-black eyes locked into mine and I could see another white flash around the two black orbs, like seeing a brief solar eclipse in double vision. A nuclear explosion went off in Ellen’s living room, and the light consumed me whole. I had time enough for just one final scream of terror before I was taken out of my body and—as with Rosie—forced to live life in the shoes of someone else…
I pull the car to the breakdown lane of Route 95 South just as the engine jerks and finally dies, spitting up steam into the dark sky as the gears below the hood sizzle. I turn the key in the ignition, struggling to get the car started once again, but only hearing a squeal of an engine struggling in vain to come alive once more. After twisting the key a few times, I finally give up. “Shit, I mutter beneath my breath and sigh.
I step out of the car, just as an Oldsmobile blares its horn at me, swerving out of the way before zooming onward into the night.
Outside I wonder in fear if anyone would stop for me. Cold wind chills me and I wrap my arms around my chest, below my breasts and shiver as my eyes begin to water.
The car only cost me a few hundred, and had been over twenty years old, probably poorly maintained, so I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised that it broke down this way, and am in amazement that it hadn’t happened sooner. But having just gotten into the United States only a year ago and not even a citizen yet (in the country as a legal alien from Japan), I haven’t achieved financial security as of yet, although I suppose I am still doing okay for myself.
I stop, frozen in my tracks as a pair of oncoming headlights pin my down like the feral gaze of a predatory beast moving in for the kill. But I try to calm myself. This is no predator, only a Good Samaritan pulling over to the side of the road to help me try to get my car started, or give me a lift to the nearest gas station or rest area so I can call for a tow truck.
He kills the engine and steps out of his pickup truck. He is a man in his early forties, yet still in shape, with only the slightest hint of gray in otherwise chocolate brown hair. He looks at me and smiles as he steps out of the vehicle. “Having car problems?” he asks, and there is something eerily familiar about this man. Déjà vu, it seems, but I can’t put my finger on where I’ve known him from, or who he might be or who he might somehow remind me of.
Someone from another life, perhaps?
(From someone else’s existence?)
“I see your car broke down,” he says, then goes to the front of my car and asks if I can lift the hood. “Maybe I can fix this. I’m real good with cars.”
And so I do what he asks and lift the hood while he looks around in the engine for a little while, muttering under his breath, until finally, he beckons me toward him. “Come here, I think I found what the problem is.”
I draw closer to him, fearing he’ll strike out at me and rape me right here at the breakdown lane of 95 South, but thankfully he doesn’t, and only draws my attention to the steaming metal gears within the engine of my car. I breathe a sigh of relief, yet still am reluctant to get too close to him. I don’t know why, but somehow I get too many bad vibes from this seemingly chivalrous Good Samaritan.
Instead of hitting me, the man simply shakes his head. “This thing’s pretty fried,” he says with a rueful sigh. “Gonna have to take it to the shop, though I’m not sure if it’s even worth fixing.”
I only look at him, perplexed, and say that I thought he said he had found the problem.
“I did, but I can’t fix it here,” he tells me, then offers me a ride to the nearest gas station so I can call a tow truck.
I am afraid to go in his pickup truck for some reason, but instead of expressing my discomfort (though he might be able to tell anyway, from the way I am trembling, or perhaps he might attribute my shivering body to the cold winds out here), I simply explain that that really isn’t necessary at all, and that I will be okay.
“It’s no trouble at all,” he reassures me. “It’s on my way home anyway, so I can take you, then you can call the tow truck, and they’ll take care of you. No reason why you should wait out here in the cold anyway. No telling what kind of freaks and perverts might get you, anyway. And besides that, it’s freezing out here and you’re liable to catch pneumonia. We definitely wouldn’t want that, now would we?”
I shake my head, realizing that he is right. With a strong immune system, illness doesn’t concern me too much, but getting raped, robbed, and murdered is a major fear of mine and always has been since I immigrated here in America, where the rate of violent crime far exceeds that of my native land. And so, with great hesitation, reluctance, and fear, I finally submit to the man’s wishes and crawl into his truck.
For a while, in the car, I grow relieved that he hasn’t done anything to me, and eventually began to build a loose trust in this Good Samaritan. The trust I build doesn’t shatters entirely from a single blow, but instead slowly chips away, crumbling to pieces one jagged edge at a time until there is nothing left to break away. I see an exit leading toward the nearest Texaco gas station, but the man never slows the pickup, and instead speeds up, and that’s when my dismay began to grow again. I ask what he is doing, but he only tells me to relax, that he knows what he is doing. I ask that he please lets me out of the car, but he refuses. “Just calm down. It’ll be okay. I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise,” he says, but I no longer believe this to be true.
I beg him once more to please let me out, but am ignored. By now, I grow terrified, my heart racing frantically as I lean against the passenger side door. “Where do you think you’re going?” the man asks, and I can see the heated anger growing at his face.
“Please, let me go,” I beg, tears now falling from my eyes.
“Shut the fuck up, you fucking gook cunt!” he screams as he grabs my hair and forces me closer to him.
The man kisses me, but it is a rough kiss, his teeth digging into my lower lip, drawing blood that flows down my chin. I moan in horror as his lips lock against mine, drowning out my cries of pain. I try to shake free from his grasp so I can thrust the door open and run away to freedom, but he only slaps me in the face, the palm of his hand like a whip lashing me against my cheeks, which are now sodden with tears, and as he slaps me again, my nose starts to bleed.
“You’re MINE, you fucking bitch! You worthless fucking whore!”
He unzips his fly, and his fully erect penis pokes through the hole in his jeans. The man doesn’t force me to strip of my cloths, nor does he make any attempt at stripping me himself. Instead, he nearly tears my pants open, exposing my sex, then like a lance, he thrusts his hardened cock into my vagina as though it were a dart sinking into the bull’s-eye of a target. I scream, crying and begging him to stop, yet he continues to hold my legs open, drawing my pants further down around my thighs, until he yanks them off entirely and casts them aside.
Then the horror continues as he pumps his erection into my sex again and again, violating me, and even manages to thrust it into my anus a few times while he holds me down, crying out in pleasure and laughing at me each time, calling me a filthy slut, and a whore. “Come on, quit whining, you fucking slut, you KNOW you like this. Come on!” he thrusts harder, and I cry out both in agony and revulsion. “Shut the fuck up, bitch, ‘cause I know you’re lovin’ this! Oh YEAH!” And he laughs again as he continues.
For each passing minute of sexual torture, it seems as though a decade has gone by. I cry and beg for him to stop; yet he continues, thriving on my fear, my pain, and pleas for mercy. He shows no mercy, yet continues, with his hands firmly around my throat. I think that I am about to suffocate now, and almost pray that I will, if only so I could be blissfully released from this horrid nightmare. But instead, he loosens his grip from my throat, allowing me a gasp of air, only to tighten it once more as his body stiffens in climax.
And then, in one final act of degradation, he rises, the vertex of his head now pressing against the ceiling of the pickup truck, and ejaculates and cries out in blissful pleasure, taking himself to heaven while holding me here in hell. As the thick line of semen pulsates from his cock, I can feel dousing my face, some of it seeping into my mouth, and I cringe as I can taste the horrible flavor of it washing against my tongue, as more of it flows along the corner of my lips.
“How could you do this to me?” I sob, feeling the heat of anger and humiliation rising in my sodden cheeks, still gaping in disbelief at what had just happened. As fearful as I had been, I had never been prepared for such an experience, merely paranoid of it. I realize now that NOTHING could prepare one for the horror that I have just endured, and that it was even worse than I could have ever imagined previously.
The man’s penis softens once more, and he puts it back into his pants and zips it up, ignoring what I have said. “Get out!” he snarls at me as he grabs my pants and shoes and throws them onto my lap. “Get your shit and get the fuck outta here, you worthless slut, and if you ever tell ANYONE what happened, I swear to God, I’ll track you down and fucking kill you!” He turns on the defrost for the windows, which have now fogged so that you could barely see anything through the panes, and then points toward the passenger-side door. “What’re ya, deaf, gook? I told you to get your worthless slutty ass the fuck outta my car, you fuckin’ miserable whore!” He was screaming now, just as I struggled to get my shoes on and my pants around my ankles.
I push the door open and throw myself out, tripping over the pants around my ankles as I struggle to get them on. After I leave the car, lying over the grass at the side of the highway, the man pulls his door shut, and even with the windows still fogged, drives away as fast as he can. I sit in the grass and watch as the red glow of his taillights eventually disappears in the murky darkness up ahead.
Cold winds chill my body, making me shiver as I finally pull my pants back on and tie my shoes. I can feel the semen still on my face—clinging to my skin like a mark of shame signifying to anyone present of my dehumanization at the hands of a monster—drying finally, yet still dripping over my chin, making my face feel frozen on this cold November night.
As I drift aimlessly, as though in a trance, along the coast of Route 95 South, I feel as though a part of me has just died tonight. That horrible man has raped me, and in turn, destroyed who I was before. The flame of joy and passion in my life has just now been extinguished, and all of my hopes and dreams have now gone toxic and are rotting away from the inside. I feel now only raw hatred for the man that has put through this hell, who has violated me in the worst possible way. I feel ashamed of myself as well, because it seems almost as though I allowed it to happen, like this whole experience was MY fault. I want to cry, but there are no longer any tears left to shed, for I am now cold and empty inside, consumed with nothing but hatred for he who did this to me, as well as increasing feelings of complete and utter worthlessness.
Up ahead, there is another pair of headlights, and an instance of dread comes on. I fear that I am about to have a repeat experience of the rape, that it is another man, a monster, perhaps even the same rapist as before, coming back for seconds. I open my mouth to scream once more, begging for it not to be so.
Yet this car is an entirely different make and model from the Ford Pickup that the sexual predator had been driving. This had been a 1960s Cadillac. Moreover, the driver didn’t seem to have any intention of stopping at all, and only speeds up, keeping up at what I would guess to be ninety miles per hour while the car weaves jerkily in and out of each lane. I can tell right away that the driver of the vehicle is drunk and therefore unable to take control of what is happening, especially at such a high speed.
And then I am once more caught like a deer in his headlights, once more pinned down in the feral gaze of a mechanical beast, controlled by perhaps an even bigger human monster. But this time around, the driver is no monster, only someone who made the mistake of driving while heavily intoxicated. I have time only to utter one finally terrified shriek as the car’s breaks squeal while the driver struggles to come to a halt.
But it is too late…
The pain of impact is immediate and jarring, as though every part of my body has been shattered like glass, but the pain disappears almost immediately afterward as my ribs and spinal column shatters against the cold metal of the Cadillac. I can feel nothing now but the sudden rush of air along my face as my body slides along the hood of the car, and my head smashes against his windshield. My broken body cascades quickly along the roof of his car, before sliding down the trunk and hitting the hard concrete road behind the taillights of the Cadillac, whose red glow now blurs before my dimming field of vision.
There is darkness now, and I am cold. The only thing I can feel now is warm blood pouring thickly over my face. I look ahead, yet can’t even move my head, which has now been crushed from the impact against the windshield, my skull now shattered, and the bone fragments are like jagged rock cutting into my brain. I have enough time to think about how I had forgotten my purse in my broken down car, and felt amazed that even such a thought would occur to me given what has happened, and then slowly slip away into peaceful oblivion…
When I came back, I was disoriented and completely in the dark, unable to see or hear anything but the faint outlines of light that might have been before my eyes. I knew who I was and had a faint idea of what might have happened, but had nothing solid to grasp on.
Answers upon reflection and pontification would come later.
It was later that I realized just what had happened. I hadn’t experienced life through the eyes of just anyone, but through the eyes of Hikaru herself. She had forced me to witness firsthand—through her own perspective—what had happened to Hikaru, how she had been raped and murdered. And now, somehow, she had been resurrected as a dark guardian angel, coming after sexual and abusive predators such as myself as a means for revenge for what had happened to her so long ago. Moreover, the one who had raped her was none other than my father, back in 1973 (who wouldn’t have looked familiar to Hikaru, yet looked familiar to me) whom had later become her first victim. She would have most likely left me alone entirely, yet not only had I followed in my father’s footsteps, but had in fact surpassed my father’s abusive ways toward women, so I was now in her sights.
But these revelations came later.
For the time being, I could only gaze ahead in the murky, syrupy darkness, unsure of where I was or even what had happened. Burned in the back of my mind, I could see Hikaru’s hateful black eyes pinning me down as I collapsed into a fetal ball, while flashbacks of that vision of Hikaru’s demise roared through my mind and once more I could feel the turgid cock of my father ramming into my (Hikaru’s) sex, while I (she) screamed and cried out in terror and pain. My lips quivered, and while I lay there, I could only think of four words, which spewed from my lips quickly, but filled with the utmost conviction:
“Hikaru came for me.”