An Accidental Monster

A short prose story about a Dexter-type serial killer.

I sit in my van, twirling the spool of nylon rope around my fingers until they turn red and begin to protest. Dawson’s going to get off his shift in approximately ten minutes. I’ve been restless for at least the past five hours, itching to get him on my operating table.

 

                But perhaps I’m being a little too forward. Maybe an explanation will allow you to understand me a little better. My name is Scott Kingsley. I have been alive for twenty five years, four months, twenty days, six hours, and fifty four seconds as of now. My profession? Blood. My life? Blood. My hobby? Blood. My Saturday night activity? Blood. My favorite meal? Chinese food. Just because I like blood doesn’t mean I drink it.

                But I don’t kill random people; it’s simply no fun. I have an insatiable need for blood. I generally don’t care what kind of blood it is; but I just happen to prefer humans over animals. I don’t know why I am the way I am. Why I feel the need to do what I do. I just know that whatever it is that’s compelling me to take another person’s life, it’s dark. It’s scary. And there’s no escaping it. Believe me, I’ve tried.

                So I just go with it. I have no feelings. I don’t believe I’m human. With all my rage and hate, I’m left to believe that I’m an accident. An abomination in Mother Nature’s laboratory. But I’m sure as hell a violent abomination.

 

                You might call me crazy, and I’d believe you if it just weren’t for blood. It calms me down, keeps me satisfied for at least three weeks. I just love what it looks like. I love blood. I know I’ve said it a million times, but I can’t help it. I don’t get why everyone finds it so revolting. It’s silky smooth yet not-too-thin texture, its murky crimson-red color. I love when it trickles down and drops to the floor, the way it looks when it covers my hands and knives. The average human adult has anywhere from 4.5 to 6 quarts of blood pulsing inside. It has four main components: plasma, red blood cells, white blood cells and platelets.

                You probably get the picture so far. But you’re wondering how I managed to live this long without anyone finding out. I’m good at keeping secrets. And no, if you’re wondering, I didn’t kill my parents. They died in a car crash. I’m serious. If I really had the power to love, they would’ve received all of it.

 

                When it comes to murder, I do my work nicely and steadily. Each of my victims (I think I have around fifty seven or so, so far) are stalked (by me) for a two-week period. I really get to know them, better than their spouses or children or anyone. I know when they get off work, I know when they eat, when they leave the house, what they do for fun and so on and so forth. And after those two weeks, I let them live for one more week, until I come to kill them. And the killing’s the best part of it all. I hide in their houses, and set up my table. By my “table” I mean my victims’ beds. I like to think that I’m giving them a little mercy, allowing them to die in their nice little bedrooms instead of a cold and dark alleyway. I use the classic hand over mouth and nose maneuver, because chemicals are easy to trace. I make sure that the room I kill them in is covered with plastic sheets, and that they’re tied down with duct tape. I’m very neat.

                The most annoying part is the disposal of the body. It’s annoying, but I suppose it must be done if I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing. Perhaps there’s something else you know about me. I’m a chemist for a corporation as well as a murderer. So to dispose of bodies, I use sodium hydroxide. It’s beautiful, and elegant. I love it. It’s as if the person never existed at all. Sometimes I watch the process with some popcorn. It’s fun. You should try it sometime.

               

                Finally. He’s out. It’s 10 PM. And the night…it speaks to me…fantasies of blood…spilling…

                But I can’t get ahead of myself, just yet. I need to be patient. Need to stick to the code. I turn on the engine, and I race to Dawson’s house before him. I made sure I punctured out a few of his tires, so he’ll have a hard time getting back.

 

                It’s time. Dawson comes inside. I can hear him drop his keys.

                “What the hel�"AUGH!”

                That’s the sound of his carotid artery being squeezed by the crook of my arm. It’s gotten so easy over the years…

                I’ve told you before that I’ve got a monster inside me. I’ve just never told you what it feels like. Well, to be honest, it feels like a second heartbeat. I believe I have two hearts: one that pumps blood through my body, and a second heart that’s dark and malformed. It pumps nothing but hatred and evil. And right now, it’s the only heart I can feel inside.

                Dawson’s on my table. I go right for the best part. I take my Swiss army knife, so small, so silver, and carve the small of his check with a minute incision. Blood gushes out, so slowly, so sweetly. I swear I can talk to it sometimes. Sometimes it talks back.

                I keep watching the blood, oozing and trickling down the body and watch it drop onto the floor. So neat. So simple. Does it have a mind of its own? Can it feel?

                No matter. I ready the knife for another cut. Counting. Cutting. The night is red. And it is beautiful.