The Villian and the Victim

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

A novel with multiple points of view, telling the events before, during, and after a kidnapping.

Chapter 1 (v.1) - The Villian and the Victim

Submitted: January 02, 2012

Reads: 333

Comments: 3

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 02, 2012

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-1-

 

I shook my head in something beyond silent fury as the young girl walked away from me. The thrill of the chase never died, but neither did the sting of rejection, the realization they had escaped. As the wind tore at my face and hands, the icy air like liquid steel slipping through my nose and mouth, I pondered how I had taken up this hobby of sorts. Squinting in an attempt to recall any sort memory, something finally crawled to the surface, and just as quickly I wished I could push it back into the shadows.

I had been a decent child; quiet, but well behaved to stay in school. I had to stay in school as long as I could, to stay alive. As a young boy I could never understand who my mother was talking to, when all I saw was air. Why my mother constantly killed people. “Freeing them of their sins,” she said. At the beginning there had been an itch in my mind, telling me this was wrong. But she insisted if I were to tell, to stop her, I would be “purged of my sins” as well. So, as these things go, I decided to begin my own killings. It was something I could control: How munch pain they felt, how long they were alive, and of course, how they died.

My first victim was the only one truly deserving of their fate. My mother was at home for once, cooking, looking normal. Eerily normal. I was sitting in our stuffy old living room, which despite persistent cleaning never lost the odd smell of mothballs and rust…. Although I suppose the rusty stench and crimson stains was explainable, given our lifestyle.  Out of nowhere, there was a knock on the door. Funny, if you concentrate, you can tell what kind of situation is on the other side of that door by how they knock. And this left no room for second-guessing. The solid pounding on the door, one thud after another, like a jackhammer on concrete, was enough to shake our walls. Mother had begun talking to the shadows again, and didn’t notice the frightening man who seemed to be trying to break down our door.

I walked quietly, with cat-like delicacy to the door, so he wouldn’t know I was there. By the time I got to the window by the door, the banging had stopped, and the house was still. Just as I breathed a sigh of relief and leaned against the door, grateful of one less problem to worry about, a large, tightly curled fist came through the window like a cannon, and tore the door open seconds after I got out of it’s way. My heart now beating out the same pounding his fist once had, I shot under one of the couches faster than I knew I could move. As I gripped the polished leg of the couch, I dug what was left of my bitten down nails into the wood, as if holding onto this chair would prevent me from falling apart.  I heard voices, Mother’s shrill scream, then her stammering voice denying that we had any money, which was the truth, and the stranger’s harsh voice, like nails scraping on a chalkboard, calling her a liar, among things I won’t repeat. Somehow, something kicked in and I knew I had to protect her. Walking into the kitchen, unnoticed in the chaos, I maneuvered to the knife drawer, and found the largest possible. As he reached up to grab Mother around her neck, I drove the blade in his back and felt it sink into the muscle.

As he let out a pained groan, I looked at my mother, breathing heavily. I could smell the blood pooling on the floor, the intensely alarming liquid spreading steadily. The look I saw on my mother’s face surprised me and worried me for a minute. She was proud. Her thin lips pressed together tightly in a smile, her graying eyebrows furrowing together, creating a vertical wrinkle above her nose, the picture of sinister.

With an unexpected shout, I ripped myself out of the memory. Taking stock of myself for a moment, I realized I was drenched in sweat and my fingers were shaking uncontrollably. Wiping a hand through my thin hair, I shoved my glasses up my nose and nodded to a passing couple, who had looked worried. Turning a slow three-sixty, I blinked through my wire-rimmed glasses, making sure to appear normal as I surveyed the scene. “Good,” I murmured, my voice unexpectedly smooth through dry, chapped lips. “No one noticed.” As I spoke, I noticed a figure just exiting the store. The person was small, barely 5 feet, if that. Her hair was tied in a thick ponytail, a baggy sweatshirt covering her torso, and the tops of her legs. As I let my imagination wander, I felt the familiar spark ignite inside me, and as I began to saunter easily toward her, a smile like that of a snake curling into my lips, I knew this time I would not lose.

The process of grooming, when in person, is always difficult. Since every person is different, you have to slowly find what makes her tick. Get it? Grooming for ticks. Even people like me have our varying senses of humor. Anyway. I talked to her for a couple minutes, standard stuff about the weather. Then subtly began the compliments, peppered into the conversation as if I didn’t know I was doing it. I gave a small, shy smile and touched her hair. She blushed, and stammered something I wasn’t paying close enough attention to hear.

I cut her off mid-sentence; not having a clue what that sentence had been, feeling the spark of the chase igniting into a flame at the eagerness of the kill. Smiling down at her, I calculated my chances of this working. Her shiny puppy dog eyes looked trusting enough, she was leaning into me; the set up was perfect. In a delicate, quivering voice, I asked if she would please come help me with something in the back of my car, as I couldn’t quite manage it myself. “Oh,” she said, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. “My parents are…” Trailing off, she turned at the hip to look behind us at the emptying parking lot. “…Still inside. Yeah, that’s just great. Sure I can help you.”

Her tone had notably changed; from the hope maybe someone would stop her, to a bitter acceptance I wasn’t used to. Did she know what was coming? How long had she known? Puzzled as I was, I shook it off, passing the motion off as a shiver. Refocusing, refraining from becoming overwhelmed with giddiness at how easy the situation had become, I cleared my throat and directed her to my car. Her eyebrows twitched upward for a second, as if she hadn’t expected me to even actually have a car.

 “Open the back for me,” I called to her as I came around the side. This part of it always made me feel slightly guilty, making them set the traps themselves. But, they never took the way out. And neither did she. Opening the side door and reaching down to get my weapon of choice- A cloth bag with a rather large steel ball in it- I gripped it in my hands with a certain degree of difficulty, cursing my withering health, and slowly walked around toward the back again. Just as she began to ask what I needed help with- Thank God she was somewhat predictable- I braced my legs, and swung.

Surprisingly, she was much more solid than she appeared. Not fat, solid. I had seen countless men get a handprint to the face because of the word solid. But it wasn’t a bad thing, necessarily. The cloth-covered steel connected soundly with her temple, which momentarily worried me as she crumpled, half on the seat, with her legs sprawled into the parking space. Wasn’t that the “sudden-death” spot on a person? I breathed a sigh of relief as she let out a moan. I smiled faintly letting the steel swing forward one last time, silencing her, and folded her neatly into the back seat. Collapsing into the front seat, a feeling of satisfaction washing over me like warm stream water, I put the car in drive and let the games begin.


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