I like to be up close and personal with my victims. Some killers
like things clean and neat, a rifle through a window, a quick squeeze
and away; not me. I like to taste the blood and feel the organs crush.
There is something roughly spiritual about killing, taking a life force
from another even as you see how tenacious your hold on mortality is.
Today is much the same. Different house number, scribbled on a
paper as I sip my Starbucks and click my phone shut. The other cafe
patrons take no notice of me, just another young woman in yoga pants and
a track jacket. Smoothing my hair I stand and hold the door for a
young mother who is flusterdly trying to balance a baby carrier and
purse on one arm and a diaper bag on the other. I return her gracious
smile, wondering how much she will bleed if she is the one I got the
call for today.
After dark, I park my minivan across the street
and count mailboxes. One twenty-eight, one thirty, one
thirty-four...two more blocks. Two eighteen, two twenty, two
twenty-two. Target acquired.
Two twenty-two has the curtains
drawn on a pristine sitting room. The back corner has what might be a
study desk, and the silhouettes of bookcases line the right side of the
room. I know this house, it's just like every other cookie cutter
construction on this side of the iron gates. There will be impressive
leather volumes on those shelves that still crinkle when they're opened,
a neatly swept fireplace awaiting this years yule log; the rooms are
currently being permeated with Maratha's fall collection candles. Just
like every other house, until tomorrow, when the neat lawn will be
flooded with media personalities and the drapes will be drawn shut
against the morbid curiosity of neighbors. Two twenty-two.
There
is a car parked in the drive, and lights on in the connecting garage. I
look back at the paper, reading the instructions one last time. Top
floor, second room on the left. Bed under the window. I look in my
mirror, smooth my brows and pat my nose with a tissue to remove excess
powder. Tucking my phone into my pocket, I slide out of the car and jog
across the street.
Tap tap tap. Pause. Breath. The door swings
in, revealing a polished woman wearing a cardigan and a yellow glove,
clearly cleaning up the aftermath of dinner.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm
so sorry, I just didn't know where to go and your lights are on and it
looked like such a nice house, and I'm really starting to freak out."
I am gushing, and I can see my panic already wearing down her wariness.
"What's wrong?"
"Well
my car won't start and it's getting dark- I was supposed to pick up my
son from band practice hours ago. I called Triple A, of course, but the
tow company hasn't shown up. I'm getting really nervous and I don't
like waiting in the dark, I know it's such a safe community but there
has been a group of boys on skateboards past the car twice already.
Would you mind terribly if I used you bathroom and just waited in the
light of your garage? I'm so sorry to impose." My apologetic air is
pathetic, it makes my skin crawl but she is already opening the door
further. She can sense a fellow wasp in distress.
"That sounds
horrible, of course we won't make you wait in the garage. I'm just
cleaning up from supper, why don't you sit down with us for a while.
Would you like a glass of water? Tea? Juice?"
"Oh, no thank you
I couldn't impose. Would you mind terribly if I used your bathroom?
I've been out there for the better part of two hours already."
"Of course, it's right upstairs, first door on the right."
I
nod my thanks and climb the stair, being careful not to touch the
polished white banister. I wait until I can hear the water running in
the kitchen again before flicking on the bathroom light, closing the
door, and creeping across the hall.
Second door on the left. I
remove the long thin piece of steel from my sleeve, careful not to prick
myself with it's needle tip. Pushing open the door I brace myself.
There is a bed, under the window. It's a crib. Above it hangs a mobile, still playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
In the tired sort of the way that tells me that it's been unwinding for
a while now. I creep over, careful not to step on a plastic fisher
price monkey or a set of stacking blocks strewn across the floor.
The
baby is maybe a year old, clutching at a tattered blanket. It snuffles
and stretches an arm out before settling back into sleep. Poor child,
almost innocent.
I close my eyes and see the old image, hand
around my throat, my head bouncing off walls; those beautiful eyes,
beautiful eyes, beautiful eyes.
Open my eyes and plunge the rod down.
It
slides easily into the soft flesh, I feel the satisfying *pop* of a
lung. It recalls the childhood joy of bubble wrap in relatives
Christmas presents. These bones don't crunch so much as snap, so
pliable still. I linger over the left side, drawing out the pleasure
before thrusting down again. The child expires with my hand over it's
mouth, blood covering the blanket still clutched in it's hand.
For tonight, at least, I know I am alive.
