Sunday, 10 April 2011
leaves part three.
He dreamt of his first kill that night. It was nothing like a kill in a thriller, no. It was awful, terrifying, exhausting. He'd strangled a woman, walking home half drunk from the pub in his little town. No-one would suspect him, he was the perfect gentleman. Three kids, wife, the whole package. He even drove a fucking Prius, back then. But he'd had a bad day, in a long line of bad days. He was constantly penalised at work, smothered when he got home. His dad used to beat the shit out of him, because that's what his dad had done, and his dad before him. Their version of an heirloom, a constant stream of black eyes, cracked ribs, bruises, split lips. When he saw her, walking home, he'd followed her. Just wanting a fuck, at first. Just wanting to let off some steam. But she'd fought, of course she'd fought. Kicked him in the crotch, his erection, the pain white hot and blinding. When he'd recovered she'd been some distance away, but the chase had done nothing to abate his furious anger. He'd strangled her after he'd screwed her, with his belt. She'd fought and fought and it had been tiring, so tiring, but his anger didn't wane. He put the condom in his pocket because he wasn't an idiot. It was only then that the panic set in. Cold, all consuming terror. He'd killed. He'd fucking killed a woman. Created a statistic. Raped. He sat with her cooling body for a good hour, crying, before he snapped into action. Left her behind a dumpster. Stole her money, credit cards, jewellery. Disposed of them on his trip into the city to a conference three days later. No-one ever questioned him about it, but he didn't feel any better. Not for the first month after, anyway. He'd wake up screaming, sweating, thrashing in bed to the extent that his wife made him sleep in the spare room. He lost interest in sex, in his work, let them treat him like a slave. But then it had been two months. He started to get better. Started having sex with his wife again. Whenever they had sex, he'd fuck her how he'd fucked the woman he'd killed. From behind, hand wrapped in her hair, yanking her body into a curve as he took what he wanted. Sometimes he'd wrap his hands around her throat, getting off more on her gasps for breath than being inside her. She started getting a lot of headaches, after that. He couldn't forget what he'd done, and it started having an effect on him. A positive effect. He became ruthless at work, getting promoted twice in six months. Started up an affair with the office BDSM enthusiast. She didn't complain, fucking loved it, begged for it, harder, faster, hurt me, come on. He started taking more and more risks, pulling the ties tighter and tighter around her throat, until she was gagging, gasping, gone way beyond pleasure and convinced she was going to die, and she'd cry after, break it off. For maybe a week. Then they'd start up again, after 'I'm so sorry' and 'I never meant to hurt you' and 'it'll never happen again'. It was delicious. He'd killed, and he'd gotten off scott free. Nothing gave him greater pleasure, than that.