To the police reading this: I wouldn’t bother if I was you. I’ve changed enough details that you can’t pin shit to me, but honestly I don’t even care any more. Have fun, pigs.
For everyone else, there are two types of serial killers: dumb ones that kill the same kind of whores in the same kind of way two streets over from their fucking house and then taunt the police like dipshits till they get caught. Sloppy, amateur, making mistakes and dying in prison. The other kind vary who they kill, travel far to do it, change style and means, and most importantly they keep their fucking mouths shut so the cops have fuck all to go on. I’m the second kind. What I do is done fast, clean, and quiet. I don’t torture because I’m not a sick fuck, I’m just addicted to the rush of the kill.
I’ve been at this for a while so I know what I’m doing. Go somewhere new, far away. Hang around in dark areas at night, wait until a bitch is by herself, then get close enough somehow that it’s too late when you blitz her before getting the fuck out of there, especially if she screamed. People don’t give a shit about screams so you won’t get interrupted, but it gets the body found faster. I’m always halfway across town before the manhunt begins, and miles away by the next day.
A year ago though I do this, kill this whore by an apartment block and stick her behind a dumpster. There was a struggle, a scream, but I slash her across the throat and I’m gone before she stops bleeding. She’s dead though, I cut her so deep I hit her fucking spine. An hour later my cab drops me back at my hotel, a fat fare paid in cash. Standard night. I’ve had my fun and I’m ready to lay low for a year or so.
The next day though I’m going down to check out and get moving, and I notice that the brunette at reception looks familiar. She has her back to me, but when I tap the counter and she turns around my heart fucking stops. This bitch is looking me dead in the eyes, smiling this sick little smile, and her throat is slashed ear to fucking ear. All down her front is stained red, blood still dripping out of this gaping wound. My mouth’s gone dry, I feel that lightweight pricking sensation as adrenaline hammers through me and I can barely hear her as this cunt’s asking me about my stay and how I’m paying in this polite little voice. No-one else has noticed, no-one else cares. Her eyes have never left mine, are pinning me in place, and all the while her neck’s flapping open and spilling blood and everyone’s just continuing their morning. It’s her for sure, the same one from last night, from the alley, but here she is standing in front of me like she’s not dead, like I didn’t just fucking kill her. I throw down my money on the desk and get the hell out of there with my own heartbeat ringing in my ears.
After that I laid completely low for weeks, barely leaving the house and calling in sick to work. I watched the news constantly but there were no reports of a murder, or even an attack. My panic gave way to confusion, and then to anger. Somehow that skank had tricked me! Fake blood, or makeup, something! Whatever she’d done had thrown me, but I wasn’t going to let myself be humiliated.
I found the next one less than 2 months later. Normally I wouldn’t kill again so soon, but I had to do something to feel in control again. The stupid slut had broken down on the outskirts of a town, she was doing that blonde-haired-doe-eyed helpless routine, so I pretended to stop and help, strangled her, and threw her body into the lake I’d planned out. It was a rushed job, only possible because it had been a dark night, but as the light left her bloodshot eyes I’d known I was back on top again.
The next day I went out for some drinks at a bar on the other side of town. I wanted to treat myself, and I deserved something good. So I’m sitting at the bar, beer in my hand, chatting with the bar guy and making him laugh, when I hear this raspy voice come from behind me.
‘Hey Hun, is this seat taken?’
Next thing I know, this sopping wet bitch pulls out the stool next to me and flops into it. And I mean wet, she’s soaked through, literally dripping water onto the floor and all over the bar, stringy hair plastered to her face. This crazy skank leans over the counter and asks for a rum and coke in this cracked voice, and the barman just takes her order like there’s nothing wrong in the world. Fuckin simp. I go to ask her what the fuck is up with her, until she turns and looks directly at me. Her skin is mottled, pale and slightly puffy, but her eyes. Her fucking eyes. They’re bloodshot, red all the way through, and they’re fucking dead. I know what the eyes of a dead bitch look like, and these are fucking them.
This cunt cocks her head to the side and goes, ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’ as if she doesn’t know, as if bruises in the shape of my own fucking hands aren’t standing out a livid blue against her grey throat. I can’t find my voice, my tongue is paralysed and there’s this buzzing in my ears as I can’t pull my eyes away from her face. The barman comes back and passes her the drink, and I look at him desperately.
‘Can she be in here like…that?’ I get out, barely able to think.
He’s confused though, looks her over quickly then back to me, ‘Don’t know what you mean, sir. You’re fine miss, five thirty please.’
‘Oh darn, I think I’ve lost my purse.’ The giggling creature turns to me, turning her swollen lips into something like a smile. Her voice raises in that way whores do when they want something, but still with that broken rasping. ‘Can you spot me Hun? I promise I’ll pay you back.’ And then, she puts her hand on my knee! On my fucking knee. My skin is crawling, pulling away from the shock of the ice cold wetness and the contact of that thing.
The barman’s looking at me expectantly, I’m fucking trapped, and so I shakily hand him some cash with a ‘Keep the change.’ almost as raspy as hers, and he raises his eyebrows as he thanks me as if I’m meant to know what that fucking means. She still has her hand on my knee, is asking me something in that horrible fucking voice, but I don’t care. As fast as possible I rush to the bathroom, barely making it to a stall as burning bile shoots out of my mouth. I vomit a long time, tears pricking at my eyes. By the time I clean up and crack the door to look out, she’s gone. I don’t stop to ask the barman anything, I don’t want to be there at all any more. Nobody else saw, or cared. The stool where she was sitting is still wet with her imprint. That shakes me. The wet handprint I find on the door of my car shakes me even more.
I went nuts after this. Shit, I didn’t care. I was tracking down two, three, even four targets a month. I was sloppy taking them out, but I was desperate, like a wounded animal, just trying to feel okay again. They kept showing back up though, like they were hunting me down. Bloodstained, bloated, grey and injured, they would find me. Why couldn’t I just kill them again? Why was I scared of bitches that I’d already ended once? Because they always did it in public! Maybe they got smarter after death, don’t fucking ask me. But it was in bars, crowded streets, shops. When I hid at home they stood in the street, just bleeding on the tarmac and staring into my windows. I don’t know what to do any more, they follow me, watch me, are everywhere around me. The more I killed, the more of them they were.
And so now I’m thinking maybe I’m not as smart as I believed. Maybe I’m very very stupid, because the haunting faces at my window got too much for me, and I got drunk, and high. And I put a bullet into my own heart. But the people I kill don’t stay dead, do they? And so now I’m left in a pool of my own blood, with police sirens flashing outside, and those awful dead whores still staring down at me. And they’re laughing, and laughing, and laughing.