Last night was a blast; I woke up with blood encrusted on both my hands. Dawn laid next to me, naked, dead in fetal position, her skin shanked and torn, like the premature ripping of a caesarean newborn, freshly scented with the smell of a corpse.
I was calm as a civet, as I was always composed and unruffled, but its always funny no matter how fucked up the situation was and no matter how remote my feelings were towards it, my hands always trembled like holy hell. I don't know why, I guess there's something a bit wrong with me, you could say.
I looked over her body with uncaring eyes, which was mangled with a look of utter terror drawn on her face, and to a certain extent I felt quite ashamed of myself, quite bad, which very rarely happened throughout my life. But then that shame reminded me of how awful her death would look to the public, and how everyone would ultimately get real sore about the whole ordeal, and then I felt pretty good.
Her apartment was very fancy and she had expensive woolen rugs imported from somewhere far and exotic and real classy paintings drawn by some real classy avant guarde painter and all these classy glass ornaments and figurines all over the show that made you feel like you where somewhere in the orient.
Her dad was rich and could afford to buy her all the surrounding crap for her apartment while she was in Louhouma.
After I woke up that night, her place looked quite devastated. Don't ask me what happened, I guess we must have had a real good time; well I did, to say the least.
And she was dead, and all her shit smashed up real nice, I was pretty surprised the neighbors didn't hear the screams from next door, but I wasn't too broken up about it, about her furniture I mean.
What a night, and what a way to end a date. I was with Dawn for a good year and a half. She was a pretty thing, really she was. Her family was Chicago born and they always had to go and leave her all by her pretty self, so I was always around to stroke her hair and make her feel right at home without the inconvenience of daddy and mummy jutting their heads through a bedroom window silhouetted with shadows of Dawn, leg up on my bedside table, getting plugged up the ass.
Not to say that Mr Letcher didn't have the right to do just that. Oh yea, he had all the rights the father of an eighteen-year-old slut would be expected to have. The right to instigate absurdly early curfews, the right to fill a daughters head up with self-righteous puritan bullshit, the right to be a downright fucking asshole. But no matter how you look at it, Mr Letcher was fated to get the finger, and have his paternal rights shat on by the whorish not-giving-a-fuck attitudes governing the minds of eighteen-year-old girls today, Which is good for a twenty three year old pervert like me.
As much as I enjoyed fucking Dawn, and reader, I tell you no lies, I did very much enjoy plumbing that darkened blood encrusted tube; here we have this uppity bitch by the name of Patty Robinson. Patricia Fucking Rob-in-son. Patty doesn't know shit about Dawn, and I guess I had intended to keep it that way. But here, standing over all this broken shit, and not to mention Dawns bruised and slashed up corpse at my feet, I don't think I'm going to have any qualms anymore about Pat spotting me and that blond tight assed Chicago gal walking hand in hand down Madison street (or maybe more appropriately, hand in cock, in my bed).
I had to tip toe over all that broken glass all the way from the living room to the kitchen because there was so much crap lying around.
On the table was a framed picture, which I picked up and examined. It was a framed picture of her and her family, in Oregon I guess. Pappa Litcher and Mama Litcher both standing far left, and Ronny of course, the little runt, extending his gloved hands in an epileptic spasm of exhilaration. Her older brother stands with repugnantly emoesque features, looking high and dry. Always hated that motherfucker, whose name will be of consequence in pages to come, But...
...Standing in the middle... was the most intriguing creature one would ever had laid eyes on, A classic example of Germanic Beauty. Dawn. Just like the temper of the night sky coming in to perspective outside your living room window. Dawn Emily Letcher, I'll never forget you, silly little rabbit. She looked so happy, without a care in the world, pitifully unaware of the fact that she was going to love a rather psychopathic killer that would spell the end for her life.
In the tragic short story, which was her life, she really opened my eyes to a whole series of new prospects. I never knew I could love another human being like I did her, I never understood the meaning of exploiting someone because you literally enjoyed being with them, for the sake of mere company. I guess she grew tired of me. I knew she would. Having your boyfriend rape you on several occasions was more or less a good reason to hit the highway.
My little darling Lolita was of course ready to split, but I wasn't having any, and I had my switchblade for that, which she flinched at when I flung it from my jeans. She called me crazy and that I was an asshole and many other truths, but she never went crying to papa or the police. I knew she was dead scared of me.
Putting down the frame, I subsequently washed my face in the bathroom.
I found myself staring at the boy in the mirror for a while before I left her apartment, tainted by a familiar stain that had been plaguing the town for quite some time now.
I like looking at myself in the mirror; I do it quite a lot. I can be a narcissistic sonovabitch some times I have to admit.
I always get real excited when I look back at myself in the reflection and picture what that face would excite in people staring at it from their TV screens and getting all riled up about the twenty-something-year-old killer who once terrorized a neighborhood near you.
I have always wanted to be a celebrity in my own right. And all that hate, and all that shit spewed left and right about me would make me a very happy boy. Especially when I hear what my old mum would have to say about me. I can hear her now, 'I was such a good mother to that child, it's a shame the boy couldn't appreciate what he had in life, me and John always took the time to look after him, always fed him, always made sure that he was wearing clothes, not rags, I just.. Don't know what to say on his part... I... I' boom, she blows up into a million pieces, right then and there.
I'm not saying she was an awful person: I'm an awful person. She was just a psycho bitch. Always, she thought she would be doing right with me when the truth was she was doing the dead opposite. Me being me, I just had to find a way to ease the whirlwind of a shit storm coursing through my head at the time. There was always soccer, I enjoyed that, and painting that was fun, dismemberment was always good to, and of course fishing was great.
I took the lift instead of the stairs. I like taking the stairs for the exercise. I'm crazy I know, but a little exercise wouldn't hurt. I guess I'm concerned about my health and all but I'm usually too lazy to do shit about it. I have no problem exploiting petty opportunities such as walking up and down the stairs though, pathetic I know.
Just as the elevator door closed I heard a man telling me to 'hold it willya' but I didn't, which I guess was the reason for the redheaded skank in the elevator giving me a glance that basically affirmed that I was a jerk-off and should be shot on sight and killed. It's ironic because I was the one that ended up killing her.
The jazzed up elevator music had made the whole ordeal quite comical to a certain extent, but it was fourteen floors more to go and that was more than enough time.
'Hey' I made an attempt to humor myself before ending the bitch.
She didn't reply.
I was at a lost for words, and staggered a bit, so I guess she thought some ragged creep was hitting on her, and I guess that disgusted her very much because she gave me this face which looked like something Picasso would churn out.
I was never good with making small talk anyway.
So I said, with much animation 'oh fuck it' and I pulled the switchblade out that I had been fidgeting with in my pocket since I entered the lift and flung it open, she was real wide eyed about that, but didn't have enough time to jump all around the place and hop up and down the lift floor like mental because by then I had managed to sever the major artery in her throat with a prompt swing and she was now gurgling a lot of blood, and blood was just spilling out of her like crazy and now it was all over the walls and especially the lift floor. I just stood there a while, looking at the poor fat calf as she blathered incoherent wheezing noises and indiscernible proposals. As if you're going to bribe your way out of this one, bitch.
Anyway I wasn't listening. Its crazy I know, but I sort of forgot where I was and kind of spaced out right then and there. I think I was getting increasingly agitated and found myself wondering why whoever the person who was responsible for choosing the music in elevators chose to suffer everybody with this lounge crap, and why didn't whoever that person was chosen something even remotely listenable, like perhaps Michael J, or Kravitz for god's sake. I suddenly felt like stabbing whoever that person was.
But before I could cogitate on that subject any further though, I remembered the dying woman at my feet, and Looking up I saw we were already bordering the second floor. So, naturally, I hurried it up a notch, although it was more out of impulse then anything else.
I kneeled down, and saw in her eyes a brief sparkle of hope, as if my pervious bozo moment had not been just a mere meditation, but a hesitant period of trauma and regret, and that maybe, just maybe, this fucking prick psycho, whoever the fuck he was, was right about to lend miss about-to-die-in-an-epileptic-frenzy-floating-in-a-pool-of-her-own-blood-and-guts a helping hand.
Shift to next scene: I find myself stabbing at her face and neck vigorously, making a real Sloppy Joe out of this one. In this brief period of uncertainty, I managed to yank out a muscle form her collarbone, blood Red wires pulling and breaking with wet snapping sounds, although I did all this without feeling or enjoyment whatsoever but irritation and to an extent, hesitation.
As the metal entered and exited her cheeks and eye sockets, blood sprayed on me like hot cumshots to the face, and I found that when I was done with her she looked good and carved as any mashed potato would be. It was beyond grotesque, but nothing disturbed me, other that the thought of the door opening and subsequently being accosted by blue pigs. I hate blue pigs.
The door did open though, but there was no one standing around besides some lackey who had his back to me in the distance.
Calmly, I walked out of the lift and found the nearest bathroom, where I wiped my face good and clean, and managed to examine myself for a good two minutes before exiting.
As I got closer to the lift I saw my little piece of work managed to amass a small crowd. They where pretty much appalled at what they saw and the same lackey I saw just a couple minutes ago who was cleaning the floor like nothing bad could ever touch the world in which he lived in was standing in between the elevator doors and shaking his head with widened bloodshot eyes.
I passed all of them undetected, like a phantom, an invisible entity that exited untouched, unharmed.