Gore: After the act

A Story by Jess Holden

What does a killer do after taking a life? What does he feel? Does he feel at all? Why would he do it again?

Tick, tick, tick. The clock was the only noise in the house, and it echoed through the walls and over the steady thumping in my head. I watched as the hands moved ever so slowly, each second longer than the last, light slowly fading from the lack of moonlight outside the window.

I tapped my finger lightly onto the black leather chair to the same rhythm of the clock, my finger sticking every time I pulled my finger away. I need to wash up, I thought, standing straight up and limping over to kitchen counter, pain shooting through my left leg from my hip down to my knee. I ran my hands under the warm water that came rushing out of the tap, watching the water turn a dark crimson as I recalled the memories of the day.

It was hard to believe what I had done, but my memory was in perfect condition so I couldn't say I didn't remember. It all happened so suddenly, it surprised me at how I reacted; growing up everyone said I was the calm one, the collected one.

I guess I proved them wrong with the day. I clenched my hands together under the running water that was now growing colder, the blood now fully washed from my hands, but awaiting the guilt from it all.

I leaned against the counter, feeling down to my knee and finding a bloody hole that ached when I put pressure on it. "Damnit," I muttered, taking the towel off the counter and dabbing gently at the area. "Help! Please!" I heard a distance female voice call out, sounding so far away yet right next to me.

"Can't, sorry." I said back into the night, realizing how crazy I really sounded talking to nothing but my own imagination.

"You could have," it said back, causing my head to turn upward, starring straight at, or more straight through, the ghost of a woman. I had seen her today, she was the one who got the brutality of my knife. I smiled, wondering if this was what it felt like to feel guilt.

"But why would I? You deserved it, and you know it." I felt empowered as the words slipped past my dry lips, knowing that this ghost could do nothing to me anymore.

"Enjoy the scar," she said, pointing at my knee, "I knew I'd gotten you."

"It's just a scratch, no scar will form, sorry for the dissapointment." I stood upright and limped through her, feeling very satisfied with my acomplishment.

"So why did you come here?" I took a seat on the black leather chair, "I mean, besides the fact I murdered you."

"How don't you feel guilt? Or some kind of remourse?" She asked, confusion and frustration pouring through every word she spoke, her fists balled and her eyes begining to tear. Hey, I didn't know ghosts cried, I thought, entertained by the thought of imaginary tear drops staining the hardwood floor.

"Why would I? Like I said, your fault, not mine." I brought my hands together and began playing with my fingers. The more she spoke about her death, the more the aching inside grew, and the more I would fidgit; not out of fear or regret, but out of anticipation.

I couldn't wait to do this again; it was like getting a shot of pure adreniline blasted through your system, along with the satisfaction of acomplishing something. Sure what I did wasn't exactly endorsed by others, but those who knew what it was like would take it over anything, anyday!

"Yes, I fell on your knife 37 times. What a nice story to tell your children." She was begining to play with her words, almost create a happy atomsphere.

It felt like that, anyways.

"Let me tell you a story," I began, hoping to catch her interest, "about a man and a woman." She watched me carefully, hovering above the rocking chair across from me.

"Their once was a man who fell in love with a woman; they got married and had a beautiful baby boy." My words hypnotised her, my smile widening as I began to fabricate the story straight from scratch.

"But just a few years after the boy was born, the parents would get into horrible fights over him. So one day, they decided that enough was enough, and the boy would have to go. But how? The wife asked her husband, but neither had an answer."

"I'm guessing this sob story ends with you slaying me?" She asked skeptically, sounding fed up with the time she had just waisted. I smiled and laughed, wondering what I was keeping her from.

"If you don't want to hear the end, you can leave. I don't know why you're in such a rush," I laughed again, finding it hard to hold it in. I was talking to a ghost of my first victim, one of the future many to be.

"Just get on with it."

I smiled, wondering if I should play with her emotions anymore, or just cut her loose.

"Anyways, I guess what I'm saying in this story is, somethings are better to have given up." I wondered if she'd get it, as I watched her confused expression change to worry.

"What do you want?"

"Should I be asking you that?"

She bite her lip, and evapourated from sight, but I could feel her; she was still in that chair.

"I want you dead!" The woman's voice screamed through the house, knocking the pictures and paintings off the wall, and slamming every door and window shut.

"Keep dreaming b***h," I screamed back, feeling her presence leave the house. If I was lucky, she wouldn't mess with the next victim, or try and kill me.

How would a ghost kill a person anyways? Posess me to jump off a cliff?

I hope this doesn't happen with all of them...