I got home to already polished bones, I had forgotten I did it last night. "Never mind," shutting the door to my collection of collections, I made my way over to the kitchen admiring the plate of jewellery I had stolen from my victims. I was bored, I had never been bored after a kill. Usually the buzz would last at least two days before wearing off. "What I get for killing a worthless old man," I mumbled out, opening the fridge. No food. "Fuck,"
A mixture of body parts that were close to decaying and a carton of cheap beer was the only selection I had tonight. "Not a cannibal," I reminded myself, reluctantly taking a can of beer and settling on my second hand couch. It still reeked of weed and sex and I really didn't want to think about what the previous owners had done on it. It's next owners will be pleased to know that the only things I use it for are resting and killing. I'm sure everyone prefers bloodstains over cum stains.
Chuckling to myself, I can't help the bored feeling that resides in the shadows of my conscious. I start to think something I've never thought before, being lonely is rather lonely. I grew uneasy, a lump the size of a child's fist rising in my throat. I don't like change, I don't like new. I like control and being alone. So why do I feel like this?
Why does her miserable face keep flashing in my mind? The wall is the first thing I see, the second is my fist hitting it again and again and again. The boredom is replaced with exhaustion as I look down at the blue and purple splotches covering my bloodied knuckles.
"What the fuck is wrong with me," I'm still angry but I'm too tired to do anything about it.
The couch suddenly feels less like a previous orgy spot and more like a place I'd be willing to sleep. My eyelids feel like heavy weights and it's not long before I'm drifting off thinking about how the hole I just created would be a great body hiding place.
The laundry mat is cold and tacky, Ruth has begun hanging Halloween decorations. Crudely made plastic skeletons and bats hang from the ceiling and washing machines. "It's August," I mumble, walking over to my usual evidence destroyer. Anger, bright red hot anger. Murder sweet and quenching like water in a desert. She's there. Her back to me, loading red stained clothes into the machine. "Something wrong?" She asks, now measuring out a lid of powder.
"This one's mine," She was doing this on purpose I could tell by the happy tune she was humming out.
"Who would have thought you'd be possessive over a washing machine," She stopped, closing the lid and swivelling around to face me. "Guess you'll have to wait,"
This time the red I saw was real, the sticky crimson liquid pooling around her hand wasn't my imagination and neither was the knife that I had pierced through her palm. She was silent for a second, shock was clearly displayed through her wide eyes and open mouth. "You stabbed me," She whispered, eyes darting from the general vicinity of her hand to where she thought my face was. "You prick," shingled of ice tumbled down my spine, my limbs tensing and freezing. A grin was splayed across her face, her uninjured hand coming down to gently wipe at the blood.
"You're not supposed to enjoy it," I stated dumbly, watching as she brought her blood covered fingers to her mouth. Her lips parted and her tongue darted out to lap at them. A mixture between queasiness and arousal pooled in my stomach, this chick was fucking crazy.
A pained gasp escaped her lips as her now clean fingers curled around the hilt of the knife, pulling it out, Burt's of blood continued to bubble up and fall from the wound. It looked like an active volcano who's magma was almost ready to spurt out into the sky before wearing death and habit on the land.
"For fuck's sake," a pool of blood had formed on the laundry mat floor, it was bright and vibrNt against the cold, stark white tiles. "Go get a mop," My eyes were transfixed on the blood and the knife she still clasped in her hand. "But-"
"Go get a mop!" I raised my voice but realised my mistake when Ruth came bustling towards us.
"Is everything all righ...." she had seen it, the blood, the knife, the wound.
"You asked who our next victim was right?" I asked, Ximena, her dull grey eyes now lit up with a glee that I had never seen before.