I pick up the knife, all new and freshly cleaned. I look at it and see my eyes. I don't know why the police never catch me. My eyes give away my intentions. I remember the moment I first see you.
*You are crossing the street, and I am in my car at the front of the lane. Our eyes meet. You look back at your friend and keep talking. I make a u-turn and see you get into your car. I follow you home. At first I think you are stopping at your house, but you are only dropping your friend off. After a few more minutes of driving, your house appears. I memorize your address and decide you are my next victim.*
Through the weeks, I memorize your schedule. Tuesday is the only day your schedule never changes. You wake up at six in the morning, eat breakfast, do your hair, get dressed, then apply makeup. You leave and lock your house by 7:30. When you get home, you prepare yourself a simple dinner then watch T.V. or browse the internet to your heart's content. Usually, your house is lights out by 10:30.
About twice a week, I see men enter your house. No more than one at a time, but only one goes to see you a maximum of four times which leads me to believe you have no steady relationship. Nevertheless, your Tuesday never changes.
I slowly walk toward the door. It is 9:30, Tuesday night. You'll be sleeping in an hour or so. I open the closet, and it doesn't squeak because I keep it well oiled. The duffel bag I take out still has its new smell. I bought it the day after I saw you, and I was in need of a new one. Eventually, bags get gruesome. I start transferring everything from my old bag to the new one. I see the drill and lightly chuckle.
I've never used it, never had the chance. It tends to be on the loud side as I've once discovered. I turned it on and woke up my victim. It was alright, though, because he was secured to a chair.
I put the drill back in the old bag and continue packing. I find my case of knives and open it. All the sizes are kept sharp and spotless. Although the larger ones are deadly and intimidating, I believe the smallest shoud be the most frightening. They don't penetrate as far but cause more pain with a smaller chance of a death as an escape from it all.
And the case of fingerprints. I've never used them but you never know when and if they might come in handy. To get them, I'd meet a person then take something they put their hands on. A coffee cup for example. I'd extract the prints and, once they die, add it to my collection. It's morbid and obviously has large snags which is why I'd only use them if the situation was desperate. Even so, I always pack a set.
I've almost been caught before. After being addicted to following one specific 22-year-old, I realized how stupid he was and decided to mess with him. I sent him a note that contained where I was going to kill him, when, and how. In hindsight, it wasn't a logical idea even if I planned on going after an elephant.
So he showed up at that time, at that place, and was dancing around and "talking smack" like how he thought a gangster would act. I almost emerged from the dark to combat him with a knife while his back was turned when I heard sirens. So I simply stepped back, got in my car, and drove in the opposite direction.
It is now 10 o'clock. Now is the most agonizing part: the wait. I sink into the same spot on my leather couch as I always do, and it welcomes me. It is conformed to my shape. The rhythmic ticking of the clock reminds me of another client.
He had hired a prostitute then I called her pretending to be his girlfriend and yelled at her. So instead of a sexy or overdone woman waiting for his arrival, it was just me in my jumpsuit and a duffel. I had waited on his couch, just sitting, for 27 minutes.
When he finally arrived, it was dark, so he could not see me. He assumed the silhouette on his couch was his smut package for the evening.
"Well hello there, lovely lady."
"I'm not who you're expecting."
He flipped the lights on then stared at me in surprise. "Who the hell are you?" He was extremely flustered and started briskly walking toward me. I effortlessly slipped out my hand gun, pointed it at him, and cocked it. He stopped and froze. I stood up and strolled toward him still pointing my weapon at him. I walked around behind him and touched the gun to his back. I leaned forward and whispered in his ear, "We both know I'm not going to use this," then bent down and pulled a knife out of my boot. He turned around. "Yeah you better n-" I slid the knife into his stomach.
My mind stops. Right as I visualize the blade splitting the fibers on his shirt, the skin having tension for almost no time before letting the blade pass through, the tip just penetrating, my mind seems to gag. I ignore the feeling because it is time to leave.
I drive to your house and it takes only about 15 minutes. I park my car one street over then jump a few fences into your backyard. As expected and planned for, your key is under the mat. I slowly unlock it careful not to disturb anything. I have never been in your house before, only seen almost every aspect of it. It smells like spring with flowers commonly scattered about your house and candles that have been put out for the night. Up to your room I go. Before I enter, I prepare strips of duct tape out of your earshot. I let them hang from my arm and slowly open your door.
There you are, sleeping soundly on your side with one arm flailed above your head and the other under a pillow. I carefully and gently bind your feet, cover your mouth, then bind your wrists. To my surprise, you wake up. Your eyes arw wide with terror and I easily see all of your fears of dying. Within them, I also see myself. I become frightened for some reason and back up against your wall. I start getting dizzy and gasp for breath. Something is wrong with me. Something is changing.
"What is this?" I whisper hoarsely. "Why can't I-" I look back at you again. I see death. I don't know how he feels about me but I find and see him in a different light. These people no longer have a chance at life. I have devastated their families. My aching desires have done more harm than I can fix. I panic. There is something I cannot overcome. Within my life, any boundaries that have tried to stop me, I have been able to avoid or make right.
"What have I done," I croak. ou look at me. "Tell them. Tell them I've done this. Tell them.... tell them I committed suicide. I need to join the rest."