Psychologistics

A psychopathic killer with a rambling imagination fights the urge to be discovered while simultaneously fighting to remain hidden, but when a strange illness compromises his position

Chapter One

 

                I closed my fingers into my palm, running my nails over the skin to feel the sticky, red liquid covering it. Blood is such a strange element. I find it neither like syrup or water but a warping combination of the two. Who designed blood after all? Was it an all-powerful God like the Christians believe it to be? I think not. Yes, he sat atop his golden throne and stated, “They will have innards like thick goop, suicidal thoughts, murder their own kin, trouble coping with boredom, and a constant longing for friends they shall never acquire.” In fact, based on the Christian God, it might as well be told that way. He did, after all, part the waters and turn water into goddamn wine. I would think to pardon my French but I also don’t believe that, if there is a God, he’d have half a mind to be French. That bartender was French but she talked too much. I felt as if I kept nodding and nodding to the point my head would roll off my shoulders and she’d feel like she was the killer in the conversation.

                But that cannot be so. Why? Because: I am the killer in the conversation. I’m always the killer. I’m on TV now, don’t you know it? All I had to do was bash a waitress’ head in with a bottle. They get a little stingy with their waitress’ nowadays. I mean, her life was a dead end anyhow. I listened to her life story for hours. It nearly brought a tear to my eye, nearly. Long-gone parents, no friends, a college fund spent on twitchy drugs, boozed up nights with a certified domestic-violence specialist. I ended something that ended long ago. I sped up time actually. That’s what I do. I should be making a bigger salary and charge by the hour but I’m not Oprah. I listen to people’s problems, yes, but Oprah doesn’t end her shows by slitting the throats of everyone in the crowd. Believe me, if she did, she’d have a lot more viewers; for one night at least. Then, they’d haul her away.

                I wonder if the cops would ask her for her autograph. Probably would, the b******s. They try to do their job. But see, they’re failures. They blamed what happened to the waitress on some guy who looks like me but isn’t. If you ask me his fatal flaw was being born. Some restaurant screams murder and the jury screams, “Death penalty!” I scream, “Let’s plan another trip!” That guy got off easy if you ask me. Life in prison is a doucher for sure. I’d rather off myself than go back. I saw the guy’s eyes when some b***h reporter asked what he wanted for his last meal. His eyes got real big and he just stared a moment. I wonder if I look like that when I stare. I wonder what I’d want for my last meal. That’s easy actually: Turkey. I love turkey. I love turkey more than turkey would love not to be turkey. That’s how much I love turkey.  But I can’t think of turkey now.

                You see, turkey is simple. It’s a bird, it’s no longer a bird, it’s a slice, it’s a sandwich, it’s a meal. Murder is easy too. You’re alive, you get caught, you panic, you die, you go to… wherever the hell you think you go to. I personally think there is no heaven or hell, or God, for that matter. If there were he’d stop sick b******s like me. But I too personally believe I’m not sick. I’m just different, and aren’t those one groups trying to encourage being different? They’re reaching out for a better purpose. Really, they’re reaching out to make a profit and encourage whatever the f**k people want them to encourage. The public want football stars, they encourage sports. That’s all. The people don’t want to look at fat, sad people, they encourage organic vegetables and speed jogging, which is just a way to say, “Jogging like you give a f**k.” But I don’t, so they should stop that s**t and encourage different, more impossible s**t, like world peace. Ma’am I’m sorry but it’s not going to happen. Don’t cry; want me to make it all better? Sorry, I’m a murderer and I don’t make p***y deals like that. Go ask God. He’ll grant it. Yup.

                So I’ve got this dead b***h lying on the floor right now. I don’t quite remember what went down but it went down.  It hella went down. And across the walls. And on the kitchen counter. And on the windows. After six years of doing this you’d think I’d learn to be cleaner with my episodes, but I’m always surprised. Windows are the easy things to clean up. Floors are s**t. Floors are like black holes that suck up blood and wait to let it seep when the authorities arrive. F**k floors. F**k cleaning. I don’t do it anymore. It’s a waste of valuable killing time. But I, unfortunately, have to clean myself up. It’s hard to make a good impression on a mark when you have sketchy stains on your t-shirt. Women don’t exactly go for Mr. Unexplained Stains.

                 I am surprised sometimes though. Sometimes I think I get that look, you know, like I have some sinister secret locked up in my head, which I do, but I don’t want my marks to know it. I stare at myself in mirrors a lot. I look for that look. But all I find is myself looking for a look that I can’t look at, because I would never face it down. Inner demons are also s**t. You’ll find it out soon enough if you decide to be a serial coincidence-creator. I am the defector of Hannibal Lector; the know-how-to-kill Buffalo Bill. I do not, however, make suits made of people-skin or eat other human beings. I can appreciate art from a distance but come on; a mind can only handle so much. I just like the blood. And the satisfaction. I don’t kill people who don’t deserve it or want it. Sometimes they don’t see that they deserve it or want it but, being the professional that I am, I know that look. I know that passing glance. Many people are just looking for a way out. I understand. I want out too. But I don’t know another professional like myself to ask. That’s why I have to be careful. Killer is a rare breed nowadays. There are just too many insane people making laws for the sane people to live by. It makes it hard on us. It really does.

                When did I kill this b***h? Her blood is cold already. It’s coagulated in lovely little black spots like the ones on the Dalmatians in that Disney movie. Wasn’t one of those little a******s named Patch? Yup, that big spot beneath her head is just like Patches’ patch; Big, irregular, and looming. My head is aching. I don’t drink or do drugs anymore. Sobriety is also s**t. It can’t be that. Did she hit me? It’s happened before. Some people just aren’t too keen on receiving their final judgment. Some of them like to fight back. Then some of them just stand there with their eyes wide open like the man who took my wrap. They just look at you like some dumb animal. Are you going to seriously kill me? Yes dude, I am seriously going to kill you. Right now? The f**k do you think I’m doing with this shovel? I don’t dig holes. I leave that up to the gas journeyman. By the way, they’ll probably find your body in the morning by that one store. You know, the one that sells used underwear. I like to put them in places like that. Then, whenever the reporter is at the scene, she has to say something like Man found brutally slaughtered outside of Louie’s Luxury Lingerie. I have to have something to live for, after all.

                I’m washing my hands and am looking in the mirror again. I hear something though and it’s giving me a complex. It’s a little voice. Most people have it. Usually it tells them they’re fat, or that they have ugly ankles. Sometimes it tells guys their life is a waste of time and their toilet paper needs restocked. It’s that little thing a lot of weirdoes call a conscience. I just call it the annoying f*****g little voice. Same thing really.  But mine is a nagging little b***h. It whines mostly. It tells me I’m in the wrong mostly, or that I’m going to get caught soon. It tells me I forgot that one little fingerprint that’s going to lead the police to my dojo. If I had a dojo. I don’t. I just sleep in the house of whoever I killed most recently without a spouse. This one guys wife was so fucked up she thought I was her husband coming home and I had a hell of a time getting her to leave me alone. I slept on the couch and she kept baking cookies and s**t, bringing them to me, baking herself, bringing that to me, talking. I didn’t kill her, if you’re wondering, but I have to admit it crossed my mind.

                I don’t like women. I don’t like men. I don’t like pets. Actually, I rather resent all living things. I would probably be a fashionable grim reaper. Hopefully he’s retiring and handing over his position soon. I’d take his job in a heartbeat. The only things I cannot kill are children. Not because I believe in the whole all children are innocent bullshit but I just can’t do it. They seem like they should have the allocated time to make things right before I judge them. Who knows? I might not kill them, if I like them. But I’m usually one to revert to my habits.

                I’m sitting in the soiled apartment on the toilet. My stomach is cramping terrible. The little voice is saying: The neighbors heard her scream. They know your face. They know your game. I keep scratching at my temples like that will drive the voice away but the itch always goes deeper, always digs its way down further until my very brain feels like it’s burning. It sometimes bothers me when I get overzealous for a kill. It makes me feel like I might really be seriously crazy, which is ridiculous, because I know I’m not. Still, it haunts me. They say you never forget a kill but that’s not necessarily true. I forget Janes and Johns all the time. Some stories just aren’t that memorable and I’ve killed what? Forty? Fifty? Maybe fifty-five? Enough. But the truly messy ones; those stick with you for a long time. I would say forever but I haven’t lived that long.

                My clothes are dirty and caked with red slag, shiny and dull at the same time where wet meets slime. There is blood on my face, my gray eyes blinking like my reflection is a stranger. Dark circles ring the gray where stress has divided and conquered. The viscous, unintelligible garments on me are difficult to remove and, when I do, my pallid skin is draped in rivulets of textured gore. I shower and the tiles jump with watered down red droplets. I shower so hot my skin turns colors and my back stings. As I shave, the final traces of red stains disappear.  Many call me handsome. I have a medium build and am quite tall. It always fascinates me how, no matter how strange I am, women are still drawn to me. I believe my description on a dating website would go something like: 6’4’’, blonde, gray eyes, likes to hunt, heart of gold. Well, everything but the heart of gold. I’ve seen my heart and it is black, black, black.

                I tiptoe carefully through the apartment until I reach my briefcase. I bring it everywhere with me. It contains a change of clothes, bar of soap, a straight razor, and a bottle of peroxide. On occasion I add or subtract contents from it but it mostly never changes. After dressing nicely and doing a once-through on my hair I go straight to the fire escape. Something as obvious as a fire escape is something I rarely take as an exit but this one faces a windowless alleyway and seems safer than taking the main stairwell down.

                I climb down and in seconds I’m just another average Joe, drifting in and out of the busy sidewalk wafts as group upon group of possible involuntary volunteers pass me by. The smells of the city make me hungry. An heiress’ perfume seems delectable and poetic to my senses; a man’s musk stark and vibrant against the shades around it. Every human creates their own inimitable redolence that makes my thoughts skip and my imagination flip through the many pages of possibilities conceivable. If I remember anything about my marks, it’s their fragrance.

                 It might be a perfume or conditioner, laundry or sweat. They say that smell is the most primal of senses, that your brain can pinpoint exact information from only a few particles. This has to be true. Every Lola or Leroy I encounter seems to emit or stifle the smells of their lives. The fearful w***e masks the smell of fear behind a floral bouquet; the greedy pimp shows off his affluence in the form of lavish cologne. A cheating husband is a complicated smell indeed; a triangle of scents: his wife’s, his mistress’s, and his own. But, of every intriguing scent, the one that captures me most is the smell of pure blood. The smell has become a modern rarity. Cigarettes, medications, pollution: all adding to the impurities of the human body. It is nearly inconceivable, the amount of things I can distinguish about someone by their smell.

                I wander third and ninth for about an hour. The voice is back. It must’ve snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking. This time it’s excited. It’s saying: Turn back the way you came. Don’t walk too fast, they’ll notice you. They know. They know. They know. I duck into a restaurant. Boy, murder sure does give one an appetite. It’s a common habit of mine: mass slaughter, then dinner. I order a mass of food and feel obligated to leave a hefty tip. I’ve killed many waitresses; enough to know that most don’t receive dick for tips. Before I leave, before I tip my hat and slide in my chair, I can feel something telling me there’s something wrong. I feel strange. I feel sick. An oriental couple walks by me and raises their brow. Do I look strange to them? I am tired suddenly. My body feels weak. Is it the food? No. It’s in my head. There’s something digging inside it. It’s like a headache that’s burrowing into my spine and squeezing my brain. I feel like I’m going to have an aneurism.

                In a haze, I stumble forward, the patrons of the restaurant gawking at my stagger. I open my mouth and eyes wide. It must look like I’m gasping but I swear I’m not. There’s a ringing in my ears that is shaking the drums nearly out of the hole. A waitress jumps to catch my fall, my knees sliding out from beneath me before I know it. Then it is black, black, black. Blacker than my heart.

 

                I begin to breathe and automatically I am filled with a strange feeling. I don’t know what has happened. I don’t know where I am. I just know it’s never happened before. I guess the feeling I’m trying to describe would match closest to fear but it’s hard to tell considering I’ve never been afraid. Suspicious, yes, paranoid, yes, but never afraid. My eyes flicker open and the fluorescent of a white kitchen blinds me. A hand is on my chest, another under my head. About six faces stare down at me from my sides. I hear British voices bickering.

                “Is he dead?”

                “Calm down Evie. Can’t you see the b*****d is still breathing?” A man’s voice.

                The woman shrills again, “Are you sure he’s not dead? Look at him. He looks terrible.”

                “Goddammit Evie! Will you shut up? What if he hears you?”

                “Well what if he hears me? He should know he’s sick Errol.”

                “I’m pretty sure he knows he’s sick Evie! Look at him!”

                I look at the man named Errol and knit my brow.

                He looks back at me and then to his wife, “Do you have a name sir? Can you hear me?”

                His tone makes me feel ignorant and afflicted. I don’t like it. I don’t answer. My mind can hear his words but they seem to come out funny. I can’t seem to answer him.

                Errol snaps his fingers in my face, “Ello? Sir? Can you hear me?”

                I suppose I give out a nod because he quits asking.

                Evie seems predisposed with my pulse, her prodding fingers cold on my hot neck, “He’s giving off a cold sweat Errol. What do you suppose is wrong with him?”

                “I don’t know woman! Do I look like a goddamn doctor? He probably had a heart attack or, I don’t know, something like that, maybe a stroke.”

                The fear grips me suddenly.

                 I kick out of the group and into a cabinet, my back cold with sweat and my head swimming, “Where am I?”

                I hear a gasp from Evie, “Oh dear. Poor man. Doesn’t know where he even is.”

                I feel myself shaking, my muscles contracting, “What’s wrong with me?”

                Errol is coaxing me to lie back down but my body doesn’t want to move. I’m so weak and tired.

                “You’re in the kitchen of the restaurant dear. You seem to have fainted. We’ve called the hospital and they’re on their way. Do you need water?”

                Evie’s words sink deep into me. An ambulance. If they cut off my clothing they’d surely see the stains on my body. They’d surely see the scratch marks and bruises. Questions would be raised, pictures compared, suspects narrowed. They’d catch me for sure or at least put me on watch.

                “I have to go,” my voice sounds raw and hoarse.

                Errol is shaking his head, “Where? But you can’t even walk right. Who knows what’s wrong with you even internally. You need to stay here Sir.”

                I shake my head, “No, I have to go. I have to.”

                In my confusion I cannot think of a reason I must go that I can explain, only that I must.

                A dozen hands descend upon me suddenly. I try to stand but the hands hold me.

                “Let me go! I have to go! Let me go!” I kick my feet out and fight with the max of my strength.

                There are eight hands on me suddenly, and then six, and then two, then I break free of them and narrowly stumble out of the back of the restaurant. My heart is beating frantically. I clutch at my chest as it pounds hatefully inside me. I round the corner into an alley. Voices grow louder behind me but I cannot run any faster. I turn on another block, faces gasping and alarmed by my outbursts. I lose myself in the crowd. I feel like one of them, the poor b******s I usually feel predatory to. I feel like a mark; vulnerable. I wander to third and twelfth, my legs barely dragging my sagging body forward. I see an ambulance go by and feel the need to hunker away from it. I am sweating furiously, my clothing soaked through.

                I stoop down on a step. The cool stone feels like needles on my skin. Before I know it I am laying on the steps for all to see, absorbing the affirming cold. I lie here a moment. I close my eyes. I ignore the busy sidewalk and focus on my pain. The little voice is whispering now: I found you! I found you! I found you!

                “Hello? What are you doing on my doorstep?”

                I can barely bring my eyes to open, “Resting. I am very sick.”

                The voice comes back. It is dainty and feminine. I feel a longing for it. It reminds me of what home is.

                “Resting? On the steps? If you don’t mind me saying, you look terrible.”

                I roll my eyes, “I know.”

                “Well, do you need help?”

                I manage a nod but the small effort makes my head throb.

                “I’ll call the hospital.”

                “No. No.”

                Her voice quivers, “Well you can’t just stay out here.”

                My chest is rising and falling heavily. My breathing is slowed to s**t, “Ok.”

                There is a stiff silence a moment. Has she gone? Did she leave?

                I feel worried, “Hello?”

                “I’m still here.”

                 I feel her sit next to me. Her gentle smell is calming.

                “Well, what on Earth do you think I should do with you then? Do you need anything?”

                My mind wrangles up only one word, “Help.”

                I hear her sigh, “Then why can’t I call the hospital?”

                I shake my head, “Trouble.”

                “You’re in trouble? Do you mean they’ll arrest you? You’re not a mental case are you?”

                I can’t help but smile, “Sure.”

                I hear her sigh again, “Can you walk?”

                “Maybe,” even the small answers are dragging on me.

                “I’ll help.”

                I feel arms beneath my own. I push upwards and teeter against her. She is small but strong.

                “My apartment is on the first floor. Bet you’re glad to hear that.”

                I feel my feet dragging slightly behind me. I am losing ground.

                She fumbles with her keys and jangles open the doorknob. I open my eyes vaguely long enough to see that her expression is fierce and serious. She worries that I will not make it inside. I make it barely to the couch and crash into the cushions as if dropped by plague.

                She runs off a moment and returns with a cool rag and three beautiful white pills.

                She presses a glass to my lips, “Drink. Take this. You need it.”

                I generally don’t take medicine but, being as my head felt kicked by a mule, I didn’t argue.

                “Please. Let me call someone. A doctor. A nurse. Someone, “She sits on her coffee table and     frets.

                “You can’t. I can’t say why. Please.” I feel like these words might assure her but they do not.

                “Fine. We’ll see if the medicine helps. If it doesn’t we’ll be having this conversation next time    you wake up,” she takes the glass from me, “If you wake up. Ask me if you need anything. I’ll feel terrible if you die here. You don’t seem like such a bad guy.”

                I nod. I am very tired. She folds the rag on my forehead. I have never been treated this way. Even as a child I cared for myself when I was sick. I feel a strange warmth inside me and I’m not sure if it’s nausea or if it’s joy. Someone cares about me. Someone cares if I die. In some way, I feel different. It’s not just because I’m sick. There is something else. I am tired. I don’t know what.

 

Chapter Two

 

                I awaken to a strange sight. As I stare two eyes stare back at me. A massive, spotted Great Dane is looking me square in the face. It has one blue eye, one brown. The blue eye has an annoying black spot in it that makes my obsessive compulsive disorder tick. But I kind-of like the dog. I never like anything or anyone. What is wrong with me?

                I look around the room. In my vertigo I hadn’t been able to see the room before, or at least had not noticed it. It is small, comely. The walls are a light gray with well-placed pictures dotted about it. Most homes look like s**t. This one does not. The dog whines a bit and places a robust paw on my arm.

                “I don’t shake hands.”

                The dog tilts its head. I feel guilty for this strange dismissal of friendship. I read his nametag. It reads: Beauford, in large, black letters.

                “Go away Beauford.”

                He rests his head on my side and stares. This brings on a stronger guilt. What did Beauford ever do to me? I know. He is a dog. I don’t like animals. He is an animal. It makes total sense.

                “Where’s your owner?”

                Beauford woofs. He seems to think he has understood something I have said. He nudges me and attempts to climb onto my stomach.

                “Get off! You’re smashing me Beauford!”

                Just then, I hear a lock click. The door across the room opens and my rescuer walks in, carrying a grocery sack.

                I sit up and manage to push the colossal beast off of me, “Is this yours?”

                She sets the groceries down, “Oh, I’m sorry. Beau! Beau! Get off the dude! He’s not feeling well.”

                The dog looks at me as if in a desperate plea for me to allow him to stay.

                “You heard her.

                Beauford walks away and disappears into a bedroom. His large nails click on the wooden floors as he leaves.

                “Sorry. I’m not much of a dog person,” I feel bad. I never feel bad for anything. Serial killers shouldn’t feel guilt. Artists shouldn’t feel guilt. I am both. Have I somehow metamorphosed into neither? Has my illness rendered me boring and normal?

                “It’s ok. Beauford likes everybody. I’m Piney, Piney Rushford. It’s a terrible name, I know. Don’t hold it against me. Let’s just say high school wasn’t a time of great joy for me.”

                I chuckle a bit. I try to hold it behind my teeth but the voice is telling me to. It tells me that it’s ok to laugh which it never has said before. I must listen to it, must release its wishes. I can imagine the voice’s eyes watering. His face wrinkles in places, a wide smile played across his face. He must love seeing me hold back. He settles.

                I take the reins again, “Sorry. It’s not that bad, really.”

                The voice hypothetically nudges my side. It repeats to me: Dude. Get out of here. She doesn’t want anything to do with a weirdo like you. Look at you. I stand. My eyes seem to glaze over. I must look like I’m going to pass out or go apeshit or something but Piney doesn’t say a word.

                “I need to go.”

                Piney’s face turns sad and confused, “Are you sure? You still look very weak.”

                “I’ll be fine. Where’s my jacket?”

                A sweep of panic overcomes me. I realize my jacket has been removed. My white shirt has been taken off of me. Has she realized what stains them? Has she noticed? My hands tug at my clothing nervously. In replacement of my white shirt a white tee covers me.

                “My shirt, where is my shirt?”

                Piney shrugs, “I helped you remove it last night. You woke me up mumbling. You had a fever. You were sweating pretty bad so I guess you wanted it off.”

                Her expression is blank, if not totally ignorant. She has not found me out.

                “Can you get it for me? I have to go. Now.”

                Her eyes narrow. She looks at me like someone who has just discovered their apartment has a dead rat in it. As she walks off I can’t help but look away. Beauford eyes me as I stand in the doorway. Piney has collected my things which appear to be newly washed. Much of the blood has faded away.

                “I am sorry to leave you with so many questions. I just need to go,” I look at Beauford’s saggy eyes, “See ya, Beauford.”

                Piney stands in the way of me leaving, “What’s your name even? You never said.”

                “It’s better you never know. Remember what I said about me being in trouble? I am trouble.     Thank you but you shouldn’t have to know people like me. Just forget you ever saw me, ok?”

                She crosses her arms, “Ok. Fine. You can go. Just know that a police officer came by our building a few minutes ago looking for you. I guess I don’t want to know why they were looking for you exactly. Goodbye then.”

                Her voice was full of a dour, obstinacy.

                I thanked her to my best ability and left the building. I walked all the way to Seventh and ninth before realizing I had no place to go. My last kill’s home had been thickly evidence-strewn. I could not go there. The authorities could’ve already found my last prospect.

                Finally, back in my comfort zone, I began to go back to my normal habits. I smelled the air. I searched for new prey. The smell of a wealthy socialite makes my senses tingle. I follow my nose to the source. A finely dressed, attractive businessman stands in attempt to hail a cab. A young woman stands next to him. I can tell by her tailoring that she must be his wife. Her coat smells like apricot and vanilla. I do several incognito passes and inhale the couple’s scent deeply.

                My second pass reveals that the woman’s name is Wendy. My third reveals that the man’s name is Michael. My fourth pass, as the man hails a taxi, reveals that they live in an apartment complex on Caldwell and Adrian, a place I know well for its high-society aristo-brats; young, dumb money on a spending spree. I hail a cab myself; flipping through my wad of cash Piney forgot to wash down the drain. I pay the driver twice his rate. I do this and tell them to not ask any questions. The drivers are always more than willing to do exactly as I say. After all: twice the rate? Opportunity is a b***h.

                We follow the young couple inconspicuously until they stop. I pay off the driver another hundred to keep his mouth shut, a not-so-uncommon act, and follow the couple into their building. I slide on my jacket, one I found on the body of a blue-blooder only blocks away, and stride proudly across the marble floor. My humble heel tap brings the building’s front desk attendant to attention. I feel inclined to grin at her and she melts. She probably thinks I’m one of the residents which would entail being filthy rich. That, or I am better looking than I thought. But I don’t want to get a big head. I have to fit on the elevator.

                I hop on the same elevator as my prey. Another woman hurries in before the doors close. She is skin and bone and oddly dressed. She holds a magazine in her hands filled with colored paper markers, probably some hyper little editor for a no-name tabloid. Half-way up the building, the editor drops her magazine in the floor. The paper markers spill out onto Michael’s shoes and he irritably moans like they’ll leave a stain. I use this moment to absorb the character of my target. As the editor picks up the last of the mess and leaves the elevator, I notice Michael’s eyes wander to the editor’s a*s. It’s nothing untypical but this small, masculine character flaw reveals something about Wendy: she’s jealous.

                Her eyes catch his. He refuses to look away until the doors finally close. He doesn’t care. I look at Michael in short bursts as to not draw attention. I twiddle with my fingers and stare quietly at the ceiling. Michael’s face is clean-shaven. His physique is that of someone who cares much about outer appearances. I catch another smell. It is faint but feminine and it’s not Wendy’s. I realize abruptly that the smell is emanating from Michael. He must be taking nightly detours to his secretary’s house.

                Meanwhile, I am paying so much attention to Michael that I do not realize Wendy is staring right at me. My eyes meet hers a moment. She reminds me of Piney and I suddenly feel sorry for her. But I mustn’t. I cannot deviate once the plan is set. It is against my idiom. It isn’t me. Wendy’s hair is auburn and set to one side in loose curls. Her eyes are hazel, almost yellow. I glance away but I can still feel my skin crawling under her microscope stare. She picks at me, analyzes me visually as I did her. I can feel it.

                The elevator door dings and Michael steps off. He doesn’t even look at Wendy but grips her wrist tightly and leads her off. I follow but take a left when they take a right. I act like I’ve dropped my wallet, looking behind me as I bend to pick it up. They open the door to apartment number four-twenty-six. I am walking down the hall when suddenly the door opens again. Wendy mumbles something to Michael and comes back outside. She seems surprised to see me again but I can tell she has returned to the hall on purpose.

                She seems ready to walk past me but stops, “Do I know you?”

                I run my hand through my blonde hair and give my most applicable grin, “I’m new to this floor. I’m in apartment four-thirty-four.”

                I improvise, reading the fire escape plan coincidentally located behind her.

                “Oh, so just down the hall I take it? In what line of business are you?”

                I make a quick groan as if I hate talking about my work, “Started a small computer security company. It’s pretty technical.”

                She chuckles and sways back and forth as if holding a glass of champagne in a ballroom. Her posture indicates she is attracted to me. This makes me oddly uncomfortable.

                “Oh! I am being rude! Let me introduce myself. I am Mrs. Wendy Schwartzman.”

                She adds a long curl to her last name, probably the only pride she has taken from her husband.

                “Nice to meet you. I’m Ryan Wilbur.”

                My fake name intrigues her. She blushes.

                She giggles, “The pleasure is mine.”

                I nearly mentally vomit at her soap-opera vocabulary.

                Michael opens the door suddenly.

                He walks up to us, a fake smile slathered on his face. I imagine he keeps this repugnant look upon him for all situations.

                Wendy takes a cautious step away from me and grabs on to her husband’s arm, “His ear must’ve been burning! We were just talking about you dear.”

                I nod approvingly to him and offer my hand. His grip is strong but complacent. His body is strong but his soul seems weak. I can break this man easily. I can kill this man with no remorse. His soul is as black as mine.

                Michael shakes off Wendy’s arm, “My wife. She is quite sociable. I never know what shenanigans she is off too, do I dear?”

                Wendy nods and her smile turns all too fake, sadness beneath it, Michael’s words all too true.

                Michael kisses her, “I will be back dear. I have a meeting with Mr. Blaikley on floor twenty- seven. I’ll be back before you miss me.”

                In a rush, Michael disappears.

                There is an awkward silence between us.

                Suddenly she grabs my shoulder, “Hey, do you want to join me for a drink?”

                I sigh. She is making this easy enough to be boring.

                She is playing right into my trap, “I guess I could visit a moment.”

                Their suite is beautiful. The modern contemporary furniture and white walls will be a handsome backdrop with a little more red.

                Wendy leads me to the lounger in the middle of the room, “What would you like to drink?”

                “Do you have coffee? I’m not much of a drinker,” I lean licentiously across the lounger.

                Wendy gives me a cup of coffee and sits beside me.

                “Hold on. I like it sweet,” I walk to the bar and sift through the cabinets.

                “The sugar is on the counter.”

                I nearly think I’ll have to stop when I finally find what I’m looking for. I curl my fingers around a silver blade and slide it up my sleeve before grabbing a packet of sugar on the counter.

                “I found it,” I sit down beside her and give out a suave smile.

                We talk a bit. She tells me about Michael’s company and lots of other uninteresting bullshit. I wade through the conversation, bring out components that I find useful, lead the conversation where I know it’ll work to my advantage.

                She leans onto me suddenly and kisses me as I have been expecting from the direction of the banter. We stay this way a moment. She tells me about how lonely she is. This is no lie. I can see it in her eyes. She is much like me but only if I gave a damn. Her hazel eyes stare at me as they did in the elevator. I feel again that I am looking into the eyes of Piney but do not know why my mind keeps going back to her.

                She falls asleep on me after crying a bit. I have very mixed feelings about her. Maybe I shouldn’t kill her. Maybe I should wander off now and say that I have to leave as I did to Piney; before I’m in too deep, before Michael returns and…

                I hear the lock tumble in the door. It is already too late. Wendy awakens as Michael steps in the room. He is as enraged as I had presumed him to be. Wendy primps herself hastily as Michael’s small mind tries to understand what he is seeing. He has closed the door behind him. This apartment is by itself on this corner. It is reasonable to assume it is mostly sound-proof. It is my time to move, to get to work.

                I leap across the couch as Michael leaps for me, Wendy crumpling to the floor and getting out of the way. A glass sculpture shatters to the floor as Michael hurtles towards me. He doesn’t notice me take out the knife. When he stands again I quickly dodge his lunges. I play as only I can.

                “Come on Big Mike! Hit me!”

                Michael picks up a table leg and swings at me. I dodge. He swings. I dodge again, feeling the weight of his steps as he bumbles about the apartment. Wendy is up now. She digs through the bar cabinets and comes up with a knife like the one up my sleeve. She rushes me as well but I toss her and she falls onto the flat of her back, the air leaving her lungs all at once.

                I finally have prepared myself for the final blow. Michael jumps for me. He strikes my leg as I sink the blade into his shoulder. Unlike most horror movies, where the killer leaves his blade in the flesh, I yank the silver vane out violently. Blood explodes from his back. The white carpet hungrily feasts upon the crimson liquid. Michael is stunned and falls to the floor. My shin is throbbing but I stand above him.

                He begs. He pleads. Please don’t kill me. What did I do to you? Who are you? What do you want? He says it all. I’ve heard every word many times. Everyone always assumes I want something from them when the truth is that all I want is the kill. It’s never for money or property or petty desire. It is my job. I take it seriously. Besides, even if my kills knew the answer to these questions, even if I answered every one, they would still die the same way.

                Michael grabs my feet. I must’ve pierced a lung because he spits blood onto the floor and wheezes. He grips my ankles and climbs up me like a ladder, gripping my clothes until he stands again. Wendy is crying in the corner. She screams at me. She calls me a monster. I’m not done yet. I take the blade firmly in my hands, my thumb over the bolster and my index finger over the spine. Michael’s eyes are wide and he manages a gasp as I thrust forward. The blade sinks into his stomach. He spits out blood onto my face, my chest. My hand is now coated in red. I love the familiarity. My hand slips a bit and I have to readjust as I plunge the knife into him again. I lift up and shred away at his abdominis muscle and feel the table knife conduct his insides to his outsides.

                His entrails are being held in by only a thin layer of skin now. He is finished. I cup his head in my hand as he sinks, gently coaxing him to the floor. His legs buckle. He convulses a moment. He becomes quiet. As soon as his movements end I notice Wendy. Her face is fixed on mine. She sits idiotically against the wall with a knife in her hand. It takes her a moment to realize she is next.

                “No!” She screams, “Please don’t kill me! Please! No! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

                She stands and tries to take off running but I grab her auburn curls and throw her to the ground. But, unexpectedly, she lashes out. She swings wildly with the knife and catches me by surprise. My right arm catches the brunt of it and I feel the sinew of my arm snap as the sharp edge buries its way through the limb. She swings again. It catches my jaw and glides, skipping a moment, before re-digging into my brow. We struggle a moment. She is losing ground. Her final swing is aimed at my face again but I manage to catch it with my right hand. I can barely grip the blade as I throw it into the corner.

                I take the knife and struggle her head to the floor. Her eyes are a wild thing, distant and knowing. A thought suddenly enters my mind. What if this were Piney? Would I stop? What would I do? But Wendy is digging into my arms with her nails and biting at my hands. I quickly lose the thought and go back into kill mode. With a quick slash to her throat the light begins to fade from her eyes and it’s over, blood gushing onto her hair.

                It takes me a moment to lean back, to feel the pain Wendy Schwartzman has inflicted. I sit in her and Michael’s blood as it drains from its host and begins to coagulate in a mixing pool. I am covered in it. Michael’s blood adorns my face, Wendy’s my body, and my own has covered what was left of me. My arm has lost so much blood I’m becoming dizzy. I quickly rip off my shirt and wrap my wound tightly, forming a tourniquet. Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong. I feel something. I feel strange. I feel sadness. And for the first time I feel doubt. I am evil. I am terrible. I am filled with regret.

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

                I wake up and cannot feel my right hand. I am so covered in the thick paste of dried blood it takes more effort than usual to peel myself from the floor. The room is dark. It is not quite daybreak but I know the sun should be rising soon. I strip off my clothing and look in the apartment’s bathroom mirror. My skin is covered in crisscrossed lines where the blood has literally pasted my clothes to my body. The blood spatter on my face is almost artistically placed. My hair is stained with a coppery, brown stain in places. My gray-blue eyes are staring anxiously back at me. I look at my hands; their color is still bright but fading to brown. The color of my skin is not visible on them. My nails have blood lodged beneath them, dried, disturbingly enough, to feel when I press into my palm.

                The voice comes back to me. But, strangely, I cannot understand it. It yells quietly, desperately, trying to reach me.

                “What?!” I scream at it, “What do you want from me?!” But its clarity stays firmly incomprehensible.

                My hands are shaking. I can feel the buildup of anger inside my throat, the turning of my stomach as I think of all the things I have done. Has the voice been trying to save me; to stave off my macabre actions; my socially revolting tirades?

                I turn around and can partially see the body of Wendy. The sudden urge to vomit hits me in the stomach. I kneel to the floor and hold my abdomen, thinking of the way in which I had just eviscerated Michael’s. Only when I close my eyes do I force the feeling away. Wobbling, I manage to climb into the shower. The water is hot. Its boiling makes me feel cleaner, as if this sacrifice of flesh will somehow equalize what flesh I have taken. I let it scald me and scream as the water pelts my aching arm. It refreshes me, but not as much as I had hoped.

                I wrap a pink towel around me and gaze at myself once again. Wendy’s cut has scarred me terribly. Her mark will surely make me a pariah to those that see me. Thankfully, she has missed my eye with the blade. I quickly find a bottle of peroxide. I cannot let it become infected. A hospital would question its inception and my mind is not fit for alibis right now. I let the clear liquid pour onto my face and it feels like my flesh is melting. I blink my eyes as the orange foam burbles from the gash and down my face. The counter makes a thud as I slam my fist into its marbled surface. I whimper like a dog, tears welling up in my eyes.

                The pain in my slashed arm is horrible. I have not seen the wound yet and, as I carefully unravel it, my stomach turns again. The metal has cut straight through the muscle and I can see white bone. Blood still runs heavily from the open wound. Cleaning it is a chore in itself as the agonizing burn of the peroxide runs without end. I know I must bandage it quickly but first I must sew it shut. I find a needle in the bathroom’s linen closet and a spool of black thread. The thread is thick and I know it will be excruciating to bear but I must hurry. I take several more swigs of Everclear and position the needle by my arm. My hand shakes already.

                I take a deep breath. My heart races as I pop the needle into my skin. I suppress the need to vomit with another burning gulp of alcohol. The thread pulls at my skin as I prepare to pierce the other side of the wound, the pop of it as close to torture as I can imagine. I manage to dizzily close the wound, my hands bloody again before I finish. I cut the thread and watch my blood swirl down the drain like one of those charitable coin contraptions.

                As I am looking in the mirror it becomes clear that my face will also require stitching. I dread this as I am already fearful of needles and the cut is disturbingly close to my eye. Regardless, I prepare myself for yet another sewing session. The cut isn’t as extreme as my arm but it lies open, a jagged, nasty slew of meat. I watch the needle tensely as it passes near my eye and folds the skin together in a shoe-lace fashion. I am grateful to hide my handiwork behind a thick cotton dressing.

                After I clean myself again, I dig through Michael’s clothes. His pants are big on me and his tees are a little small but they fit, more or less. I tiptoe between the puddles of blood and busted furniture, sitting on the couch to pull on a pair of Michael’s tennis-shoes. They also fit snugly but fit nonetheless. I lack my suitcase which I have realized must still be at Piney’s. Has she looked inside it? Do I need to kill another b***h to save my own damned hide?

                No. I won’t. I don’t care what she knows. I won’t do it. I don’t want a life like this anymore. I want to be absolved of this evil. I want to be clean of it. I hold out my clean hands and stare at them in the darkness. If people only knew what my hands have done. I look at the lines in my palms. This normal hand is petrified, empty, stained. I see what only I can; smell the stench of four-dozen bodies as their blood leaches out of my pores. I hear their screams as my fingers latch around their corpses growing cold; their pulses ticking as the clock runs dry beneath my thumbs.

                Even though I am pouring sweat, I put on a hoodie and pull the hood up. It says “Dapper Dave’s Haberdashery” and it shows a man with a handlebar mustache holding handfuls of ties. I search the apartment, trying to decide whether my mess is salvageable. My DNA is certainly everywhere. My bloody fingerprints dot the bathroom. The DNA doesn’t bother me. It’s a new process that rarely produces leads, but my prints make me nervous. Before I leave I scrutinize the bathroom and living room walls with Lysol, boiling the knife in peroxide before closing the door to Michael and Wendy’s apartment for the last time. The sun is up and I bide my time, listening to doors open and close until I find a gap and slip down the hall, unnoticed.

                Sweat seems to pour off me heavier as I whir down the elevator. I try to contain it but it soils Michael’s tee and runs down my back in rivers. The hooded sweatshirt isn’t helping. As I near the building’s secretary she seems vaguely distressed at my appearance. Has she realized I’m not one of the residents? I nod her way and she resumes her monotonous-computer stare. She’s picking at me and the voice in my head is cringing away from her searchlight gaze. The foyer is large and long and it seems to take an age to reach the outer doors. The air outside rushes over me as I exit but the stress sweat continues its attack. People give concerned stares as they pass. Do I look ill? I feel awful. The voice is screaming at me but the sound is jumbled and strained, as if it is passing through a long tunnel.

                I walk for several minutes and try shaking the feeling of nausea from me but it clings. A knot is forming in the pit of my gut and it worries me that a second episode will strike as before. But it passes. As the blocks tally up past Wendy and Michael’s bloodied apartment, my head finally begins to clear and the jitters fade. Where will I go? There is no one who wants me. I am garbage. I hear voices in my head that aren’t there. I am a thief, a killer of men. If anyone knew my true story they would lock me away or beat me to death. I stop thinking of my guilt. I am so tired now. With no place to go and with stress mounting, I slip into an alley. Red graffiti swirls up the wall to my right. It seems to allude to some sort of gang. Three twisted symbols that resemble a tatau rest at the top. The words: Casted in Society, Bent by thyself, are painted below. I take a seat on the left wall and hug my knees.

                Here I am, an artist, and here I wallow, lost. Lost to home. Lost to name. Lost to niche. The red graffiti speaks to me in a way. It’s damn true. Too true. I was never meant to thrive in society. Society, with its ever-changing, elusive, impossible standards, where people scrape and scrounge to achieve things they must scrape and scrounge for. Tears well up for the first time in years. Who am I in a society like this? I find it hard to believe I could enter the world anew. Monsters don’t belong with men. I press my hands to my face and suck in deeply, but pull them away in disgust, knowing where each finger has been. The indexes are keen to triggers. The thumbs have crushed in several throats. The outer fingers have twisted into flesh and felt the insides of human beings. My hands are clean but I see them coated in the blood of every victim, black and rotten.

                The second half of the graffiti coils around my windpipe: bent by thyself. It has more momentum than the first line. There is nothing that has twisted me more than my own mind. That little f*****g voice. It knows it all doesn’t it? How long have I given in to its desperate little whims? How many have lain dying on apartment floors because that little b*****d convinced me to do his bidding? But it’s me. I know it’s me. The voice is a part of me. I was telling myself to do those things. My mind was telling my mind to do it. How much life have I missed since it came to being within me?

                I remember the first night I ever heard the voice. It was a long time ago, before I’d ever had blood on my hands.

                I had always been an outcast in school. My mother had died when I was three and I never could remember her face. My father always had odd jobs or none at all. He had been an alcoholic ever since I could remember and hard alcohol was poison to him. It was true that he was never an outright friendly man, but as he downed bottles he had somehow gotten the idea to beat me with them. And a hatred of the man had rooted itself in me. By the time I was ten, it was a weekly ritual. He would be sober for three or four days then relapse. It was those times I prayed we wouldn’t cross paths. But we did. I remember being so afraid of our living room. He would sit with his legs kicked out in front of him, TV blaring, eyes glazed, hands curled tight around the latest can or bottle. It was like a sick game I always had to play. Stay out of the TV light. Don’t move too much and catch attention. Silent as the grave. Don’t breathe. Don’t blink. He’ll see. Is it a beer or a bottle? Is he sleeping or passed out? It was a putrid game.

                And sometimes I lost. I had found over the years that certain floorboards creaked, certain TV shows put out more light, and sometimes our neighbor’s dog just wouldn’t shut up. By the time I was fourteen, I had it down to a science. I also had two bottle scars on my head, a cigarette burn, a cut from collar bone to armpit from a pocket knife, and a jagged scar on my back from getting shoved into a doorway. And those were only the marks that stayed. But it was my life. It was something that seemed normal at the time.

                My only solace was in a house across town. My best friend lived in that house. His name was Mark Clemens and he had as much trouble going for him at school as I did at home. We had gravitated to one another after sophomore year, both misunderstood people just wanting to escape. Mark had been bullied since elementary school but, from his drooped shoulders and escapist habits, I had pegged that the brutalization had escalated. Ironically, Mark’s brother had been on the football team, teammates with his little brother’s worst nightmares. He followed the others sheepishly after his own brother, but not so consciously as to make the cruelty stop. I guess that is what drove Mark and I together. We both had to face demons in one way or another. Our joint suffering, our joint understanding, had made us confidantes by association.

                By the time we were juniors, I had offered Mark my protection on the bus and walking home from school and he had offered the comfort of his home. I no longer was required to spend my time alone in my room in fear. I had a friend that knew pain too. Our junior year had been a relief to both of us. The bullying had lessened because of me and my father was beginning to be a distant relative. We walked to school in the morning through the adjacent park. We had snowball fights and pelted each other with acorns. It was a private paradise. By senior year, we no longer rode the bus.  We enjoyed each other’s company. The walks gave us a chance to breathe for once in our lives.

                It was winter again during our senior year. That’s when everything changed. Mark had been busy explaining how he was saving up for a car when a cascade of rocks pelted him from behind. As I turned, another handful stung my face. Mark’s bullies had followed us. They had never attacked Mark outside of school to my knowledge. There were three. One was the school’s lead quarterback, a brute of a boy with a shaved head. The other was his backstreet boy, his shadow. The last was Mark’s own brother, Bradley. Anger swelled over me at seeing Bradley. How could someone desecrate a fraternity in such an abashing way? How could you be a bystander to your own brother’s humiliation? I remember it perfectly in my mind.

                The quarterback smirks at Mark, “Well, look who decided to play in the woods! It’s freak and     freakette. Bradley, how can you call this little s**t your brother? Look at him. Little s**t needs a body guard? How pathetic.”

                Bradley looks at Mark then back to the quarterback, “He’s only my half-brother. He’s not really family.”

                I watch Mark’s hands ball into fists, shame welling in his eyes, eyes not leaving Bradley’s.

                The quarterback shrugs, “So who are you then bodyguard? When did you become butt-buddies with Bradley’s lesser?”

                I feel a rush of hatred, “Do you really think you pathetic attention w****s bother us? Why don’t you just get bent and f**k off? Pathetic? Try looking at yourselves.”

                The quarterback blows air from his nostrils, “Pathetic, really? And how does a fucktard like you find us pathetic? I could take you with a hand tied behind my back. I’m a god at East-Central. You two are the s**t beneath my feet.”

                I smile in retort, “What’s pathetic is that you feel like you can’t get a boner without picking on    someone smaller than you. You think you’re tough digging at Mark? Yeah, real tough guy, choosing to fight someone who you know can’t fight back. You’re not only pathetic. You’re weak.”

                I know I’ve struck a chord because the big guy’s lip twitches. The other two look lost as they wait for their ring leader to speak but I can see that his demeanor is fading. He is seething at the brim. All at once, he launches forward and knocks me to the ground. Air leaves my lungs as his weight topples me over. Gasping for breath, I roll away from him as his legs stomp after me. I can see Mark on the ground next to me. When had he been hit? A small trickle of blood runs down his lip. The big guy has his foot on my chest as he goes to pick me from the dirt but I grab his head and press into his eyes. He screams and backs away. I know I must get Mark away. He can’t fight them and I can’t fight three.

                Mark helps me up as the others watch their injured comrade claw at his eyes. I can tell he’s feeling better by the moment. All I can think of is to tell Mark to run. We take off through the snow, the wind whipping by. They will be on us any minute. We have to get out of the park. Mark runs a few feet in front of me. I can hear the others in pursuit of us. They scream and curse and the football star swears he’ll smash my skull in. I am inclined to believe him this time. I believe my fingers have left a painful message. We are nearly out of the woods by the time I realize they are within reaching distance of us.

                I see a black streak fly by and hear a terrible cracking sound. Mark stumbles and falls to his knees. By the time I reach his side, I realize something has gone horribly wrong. His eyes stare into the sky and he leans back into the snow. The other boys come crunching to a halt as they realize what they’ve done. Bright blood pools in Mark’s orange hood from a baseball sized gash in his head. He seizes and gasps and mouths words I cannot hear. A ring of crimson melts the snow around his head in a halo as he stops moving.

                A cloud of silence drones in my head. The others speak but I cannot hear them. All I hear is a little voice of anger growing inside me. It tells me that the putrid hand that threw that rock deserves to die. I feel a hand grip my shoulder. Mark’s brother’s eyes are saucers that stare at what he’s done. He kneels beside Mark and shakes him but Mark is gone.

                “It was only a rock…I thought it would hit his backpack…I never…”

                His words fall on ears of iron. I stare at Bradley in hatred. My muscles tighten and the little voice tells me that I cannot let this fratricide go unpunished. This thing in front of me doesn’t know the evil he’s kindled, the demon he’s wakened. I grab his collar and his wide eyes stare into mine, all sclera. I feel the fabric of his shirt tighten as my fingers intertwine around his sluggish collar. He doesn’t resist and I smell his piss as my grip folds into his neck. He gags and chokes and kicks his legs but the fight isn’t in him. The others try to pull me off but it’s as if my body is stone. I feel them swing blows at my back and hear them yelling but I don’t let Bradley go until his eyes become glassy and his heartbeat stops beneath my grip.

                The others were long gone by the time I’d decided to stand again. I remembered holding Mark’s body and feeling his cold stare as the forest darkened around us. The voice had no more to say that night. As I held on to my one and only friend, all I could hear was the echo of it crying.

 

                Darkness has fallen around me by the time I wake up. The alley is cold and lit form one end . I shiver in my hoodie and am thankful for its warmth. Winter is coming to the city. A faint music comes from down the street. It’s a mixture of rap and reggae and I hate it. My sleep-woven memory stings. I haven’t thought of Mark in years. I guess I’d blocked it from my mind, overlapped it with death over death. The thought drains me of the rest of my energy. I sit in the cold alley in silence.

                I hear a crash and realize I’ve fallen asleep again. It must be near three in the morning and the apartment from the end of the alley is still blaring Jamaican hoodoo that echoes to the street. The apartment sits in the inside corner of the building and has a brightly lit porch that hugs the corner. Margarita lights string in scallops over its latticed roof. I want to smash their radio.

                Suddenly, the sound of footsteps approaches down the alley and alerts me that I’m in for company. As they get closer, a man rounds the end corner of the L-shaped alley that looks alien here. He has a black hat on that reminds me of an old western bad guy. Draped around his shoulders is a long black coat that reaches his ankles. Six other men follow him, more modernly dressed. I curl into a ball near a dumpster and hope he doesn’t notice me. Something about his gait speaks that he is a powerful man. He stops a moment and I see a man sleeping near a door in the shadows. By his haggard appearance, I can tell he isn’t new to this alley. The dark man kneels down to him and the hobo’s tired eyes flicker open over his gray beard. One of the dark man’s henchmen comes forward with some sort of needle and kneels to the man as well.  I watch as the hobo’s eyes widen and the henchman draws his blood. I’m not new to horror but the act bothers me. It is strange and it must truly be if I’m calling it.

                The dark man crosses his arms as the henchman drains the vial into something hand-held that looks like a calculator. He shakes his head and the dark man kneels back to the hobo. He seems ready to help the man up when, suddenly, he grabs the withered man by the jaw. He picks him from the ground, as if he weighs nothing, and snaps his neck. I press myself into the darkness. Like Godzilla and Mothra, I know it’s never a good thing when two monsters cross each other. And I know which monster I probably am. Things never end well for Mothra. My heart seems to skip beats as their steps grow closer. Is this how my victims feel when they find out who I am? I concur. This is not a happy feeling. The voice in my head is squealing. I feel as if I can hear his heart beating within my own. My nerve shatters as the dark man’s eyes meet my own. He smiles. Not the nickel-slick, arrogant smile, but the brutal, cruel smile of one who knows they’re in control. I feel as if the devil uses that smile when he throws his victims into the pit. It’s a face that spells death and doom all in one smooth action.

                His henchmen surround me and the reggae music changes to country. Hell hath no fury save a man dead with country music in his ears. The dark man approaches and I stand. I will not die squatting by a dumpster. Right. I’ll die standing by a dumpster. Much better. He nods to the henchman with the needle and he reaches for my arm. I grab his arm and he throws my hand off. The others step forward as if they’ll hold me down if I fight. The little needle pricks my wrist and I gulp as my blood drains into his vial. The dark man nods as if something in my blood looks right. His dark blond hair arcs back slickly over his ears, hollow brown eyes see past me. He seems to be nervous about who I am.

                The machine in the henchman’s hands vibrates suddenly and the dark man opens his mouth wide in a grin. It’s the most hideous of smiles. He mumbles something in another language to the henchman and the henchman laughs.  The dark man’s voice is a deep pool that rumbles through you but whispers false kindness.

                He c***s his head to one side, “Do you know who I am?”

                I dig my fingers into my leg, “You seem familiar.”

                I falter. My words catch in my throat like I’m thirteen again.

                The man steps forward, “So many would say so. Yet you do not say who you think I am. Care to guess?”

                He glances at his companions and they smirk back at him.

                “You remind me of someone I thought I could be once.”

                Not a total lie. But I can see it’s not enough of an answer.

                He nods, “I know who you are. I’ve been searching for you for a long time. All that blood. All that carnage. It’s just a shame you waste your talents on yourself alone. What glory.”

                I sigh, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

                He crosses his arms, “Playing the innocent one are we? I know you. I, unlike yourself, remember your name,” he points at me, “Your real name. All those years ago with the blood on the snow and the running and the voices in your head. It’s led you to me. And here we are.”

                I close my eyes a moment. The country music is going downhill. How is that even possible? How do you mix pop and country? Maybe I want to die. This waiting is terrible.

                “So what do you want?”

                “You didn’t answer my question.”

                I sigh again, “You’re the devil? Right? You’ve come to collect my soul or some s**t? Well, it’s been a good run. I’ve been a pretty bad guy. I have schizophrenia and obsessive compulsive disorder, and a hell of a complex building up inside of me. No time like the present. Regardless, that country music is the shittiest sound I’ve ever heard. Just get it over with.”

                I put my hands up as if to shield myself from my final judgment when another rumble overwhelms me. The dark man is laughing as if he’s about to explode.

                “You’re a religious one aren’t you? What a whack. You’re perfect. You’ll have to start right away.”

                I lean against the brick of the alley wall, “You’re not the devil?”

                He leans in, “I’m whoever I want to be. But the real Lucifer? No,” He holds his hand out to me, hollow eyes smiling, “My name is George Cranston. I’m a telepathic shape shifter. I'm a freak too. Nice to meet you.”

                As I grip his hand, a chill sweeps through me and the blond man disappears beneath my grip. The fearful prose he had has vanished, melted into another person. His hair is longer now, a dark brown that sweeps to just above the shoulder. His smile turns from cold to warm, his eyes from empty to playful. His clothing has changed to a white tee and blue jeans. The hat remains.

                I stutter, “You…what just happened?”

                He grips my shoulder and points his thumb back at his henchmen who seem to have changed    moods as well, “I just told you. I’m a telepathic shape shifter. My name is George Cr…”

                “Cranston. Yeah. I heard. Why the hell did you take my blood and scare the s**t out of me?”

                George smiles, “You’re so tense. Calm down. You’d think a serial killer would have a better grip of a crazy situation.”

                “That! That! How do you know that? Stay out of my head! Just leave me alone!”

                He puts his hands out in front of him, “Easy, easy. I’m not Godzilla and you’re not Mothra. Calm down. I took your blood because I had to check to see if you’re one of them. I need an insider. I heard that they call you the artist. Crack pots. Either way, I need your help. You have the ability to infiltrate them. I don’t. Just think of it as a step up in the serial killer job track.”

                “You’re offering me a job? What the hell for?”

                “You’re not a very good listener are you? I need you to infiltrate a group of bad guys who have similar gifts to mine. They don’t accept new members unless they can see that you’ve killed in the past. A******s. Anyway, you’re their own personal superman apparently. They follow your escapades like a comic book. You’re not a very hard man to find if you have the ability to read minds. I followed you down the street and it was like desperate housewives, work, cheesecake         factory, let the dog out, my feet hurt, then I read you and it was like, blood, blood, death, blood, sex, guilt, bad jokes, sarcasm. You stick out like a sore thumb in a crowd.”

                I cough, “So what about breaking that poor b*****d’s neck over there? What about him?”

                He glances behind himself, “I didn’t. Look.”

                I look over and there lays the same homeless man, sleeping. Not dead. He breathes heavy in his sleep.

                “How is that possible? I saw you kill him!”

                He sighs as if the explanations are boring him, “I projected it into your mind. You don’t think I’d just walk up to some serial killer I don’t know and look weak! I knew if I drew his blood you’d expect the same and, if you saw me kill him, you’d be more willing to cooperate. Got it?”

                I nod, “What if I didn’t cooperate?”

                George sighs, “I guess I’d have to find another serial killer. So I’m glad I found you. At least you joke around. I could learn to like you. So do we have a deal?”

                I shake my head, “I don’t know. I don’t trust you.”

                He stares at me, concern on his face, the playfulness hiding, “I promise your life will be better if you accept. You can have a purpose. You can work with me. You’re at a dead end. I can tell,” he kneels to me and gives me a hand back up, “Or you can stay in this alley and freeze to death  listening to country music. Your choice.”

                I feel disconcerted about his offer but it seems tempting. Damn it. His offer is too good to pass up. Wasn’t I just complaining about not having purpose? I can’t turn down. The country music makes me see stars. What a stupid genre.

                “Fine. I accept.”

                I shake his hand. Damn. This nice guy is going to get me killed. What am I doing?

                He smiles, “I am a nice guy. And I really hope you don’t die. Feel better?”

                I nod. Weirdest night of my life, but there is hope in the air, and the little voice is singing.

Author's Note

This story was published in the literary journal "The Peppermint Rooster Review"