The Kissing Light

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

Chapter 2 (v.1)

Submitted: June 12, 2007

Reads: 260

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Submitted: June 12, 2007



The Kissing Light

In most terms, after I would commit my crime, I would be labeled a broken, sick, and sadistic hunter, perhaps, but did they truly hope to evoked my anger? I smiled. Even as I write these words, I can feel anticipation rising within my gut like a leaden ball. Tonight would be the first killing. After three months of carefully debating, and planning, I find my selectedvictim.”

March 18, 2007

I could hear her light breathing. Those intense and warm golden-green eyes were no longer following, fixed upon me and me alone. Her gentle inhaling scent chills up my spine, and for a moment, I pretended it was my scent that she was inhaling. I imagined her breathing upon my skin, warming me. I shivered; I was always cold, and I wondered why for a moment. Why was I forever cold? For as long as I could remember, there was always a girl to warm me, keep my side and my bed warm while I was away. Sure, it was fun in the beginning, but it no longer was fun when we had to part. Their vicious gaze would try to burn me, their words would try to cut me, and their actions would try to hurt me. And then they sealed it off with a poisonous kiss. Like my current girlfriend. Beautiful in her own physical way, the same as the other women. I never was able to hold a conversation with Amanda, tall, skinny, red-head, not the most voluptuous of the women I’ve had, nonetheless, her gentle and submissive soul made up for it. It was wanted most men wanted, something I once wanted. But now, I didn’t. Thinking of myself kissing her, touching her, loving her, when another should be in her place was torment, and disheartened any passion I had managed wanting her. She was domestic. The tang of her became old on my tongue, her smell extensive musty, and her touch only repulsing me, numbing me.

I closed my eyes in shame. It was sad to pretend to be happy with my girlfriend, knowing I didn’t even want to touch her anymore. I couldn’t look in her eyes without seeing that lust, brimming right under the surface of her green eyes. Her lips were usually lined and colored with blood-red lipstick, and when she smiled, it once reminded me of innocence, now reminded me of a serpent’s—sin. The girl pretended with me as I pretended with her. The only time she felt real was when I touched her, when she cried out for me, when she slept next to me. But even then, I could hear her gentle whisper of, “ Reuben,” as she snuggled into me.

Whore, was always the first thought that popped into my head. But she did not offer her sexual intercourse in exchange for money; she slept around with any person she pleased. And now, I was more than happy whenever I insistent on wearing protection whenever I had sex with her. There was never any making love involve in the bond that we had created. From the first time, I touched her, and the first time I taste her, it was simply a need for the touches. But even the touches were no longer needed. No longer wanted. I knew of her infidelity with other men. When she walked into the house, she smiled at me, knowing I could smell them on her. Most of them time she didn’t bother to shower, clean herself, hide her crime. She was never clean; she repulsed me.

But she, the woman that rested before me, was clean. I could smell her sweet scent of innocence, her still and gentle breaths, the whispers of the room. It was her, Julie Ampatheitnic, which I desired beyond anything that I have ever known. Beyond anything that I ever deemed worthy of lusting for, she was the very epithet of everything in a woman that I have searched for. And unlike any other, I have never felt the call of lust so strong. I closed my eyes, and stepped closer to her, denying myself the pleasure of touching her, at least for a moment. I prepared out many circumstances in which I would approach her outside of their professional sessions, where I could start a casual conversation with her, and watch her movements, her reactions, the broadening of her mouth when she made the o’s of surprise, and I imaging what she could fit into the virgin little mouth of hers. But all the careful planning that I had done did not prepare me for this moment. In this moment all logic was gone, just the need to touch her, to taste her, to smell her, and see if she was as precious and virtuous as I imagined her many, many times before.

I closed my eyes and shuddered as the first feel of her soft, tan skin under my fingers. The shock that shook my body, and I was scared, scared to touch her again, else I would lose the little control I still had. She moan a little at my touch, and for a moment I was reminded of me touching Amanda in her sleep, and her moaning, but then the anger flushed through my body quick. It was the realization that I had compared Amanda to Julie. There was shame in what I had done. I moved my fingers from her arm to her hair, lightly brushing away the dark, midnight tendrils that tickled her face. The gentle and intimate motion shocked me for a moment. I didn’t realize I was capable of it. Sure, the thoughts of my infatuation with Julie was just animal lust, a fixation on which I had not been able to pass from freely and unhindered in over the six years that I had known her.

I traced her plaint lips, the bottom sticking out in a pout, and I could imagine the many ways I could manipulate that mouth for my own purposes.

For this moment, I wished to have her golden-green eyes looking upon me. The lust shimmering almost innocently and shyly under the surface. She took great care to hide it, but the fact was I could feel it in her stare, her shallow breath.

I continued my gentle fascination and exploration of her body with an almost childish wonder, and I felt stupid. I mentally cursed myself. She would not, in her right mind, want me touching her if I acted to shyly, as if I had never seen a woman’s body before. In truth, I would like to do everything with her that I had so imagined many times, my imagination often vivid, and vindictive to no extent. It was an understanding that now, performing my long awaited fantasies would immediately alter and spoil my plans—perhaps irreversibly—until I would have to once again thinking thoroughly, setting me off course. Tonight was just a little motivation, goal of my future with her, and tonight was a taste for us both.

The cloths that I wore around my hands were to bind her with, just her mouth and eyes. I did not want her to know who I am yet, and if I were to instruct her not to scream, she would listen, finding a loophole to disobey me, cutting our time short. I didn’t want to bind her completely either, I’m sure that I can keep her in place, nonetheless, if she were to go to the police to file a police report, and if she fought against the restraints, then she’d have physical evidence. I did not want to give her that option.

So carefully, I slid the cloth over her eyes, and into her mouth, tying gently, but strong enough to serve it’s purpose. Then, I touched her with barely any restraint. I pulled the sheets back to reveal her smooth caramel skin. She was dressed in a black cameo and bikini underwear. Um…she had legs for days, smooth, almost flawless. Despite the fact that earlier in her childhood, she was a tomboy, falling out of trees, playing soccer, baseball, basketball, cross-country, and though her soft legs were rimmed with delicate muscles, her legs were still littered with cuts that never healed. But I didn’t see those scars, I only saw her skin glow under my hands, the strain on my brow increased as I tried to keep myself from yanking her legs apart, and pumping myself into her tight little cunt.

I locked my jaw, and withdrew my hand. Julie slept on, not knowing of what was happening, how much it hurt to not take her in the semi-darkness of her room. I took a deep breath, and let it out shakily. I rolled her over, until she laid on her back instead of her side, her arms went to either side of her head, and her legs were wide enough to accommodate me, with the exception that her right leg was bent and raised. It was like even in her dreams, she anticipate me touching her, anticipated me taking her. And I intended to soon.

I climbed on top of her, the old clothing I wore were my boxers. I had long discarded my clothes on this hot summer night, and rubbed myself against the thin fabric separating us. Pace, I warned myself, else I am caught before I ever started. She lightly moaned, arching herself to my gentle rubbing, and I felt myself grow even harder, the fabric of my boxers becoming tight and uncomfortable. I groaned as she unconscious rubbed herself against me. I burying my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. The archetypal vanilla scent of her skin was so delicious. I breathe her scent, greedily, my touching roaming anxiously over her. I wanted to discover this beauty, but only when she was conscious and aware.

I stood, whimpered as I took one last breath of her, and dressed. It took all my self-control to leave her for now. To leave this woman that could drive me to my knees. It seemed wrong that I touched her, but as I took off the cloths that kept her quiet, and unable to see, I knew it was wrong. My cheeks burned in anger. Such a pitiful thing to do. I wouldn’t lie to myself; she aroused me to no end. It was not just lust for her, it was the fact that she was an intellectual, how comfortable she was with her sexuality, her self-respect, and her citizenship. To be writing these words here, on this piece of paper felt like a testament to what I have done. I have displayed myself in a moment of weakness, which I cannot do. I cannot let others exploit the weakness that I have, for that’s how you wish to get a rise out of me, to taunt me, and worry that you’ll draw me out with a vengeance. Even this words that I write make me even more embarrassed at my actions. But you’ll never get the chance. I prided myself in my patience and wit. I could live on the low without a taste of my sweet drug; the very drug that soon, I will share with the world.

Funny, that as my hand is cramping up from writing, as the sun is fading, and I switch to my desk lamp how, in the midst of it all, I could blend. I could look like prey…but I was the hunter. In most terms, after I would commit my crime, I would be labeled a broken, sick, and sadistic hunter, perhaps, but did they truly hope to evoked my anger? I smiled. Even as I write these words, I can feel anticipation rising within my gut like a leaden ball. Tonight would be the first killing. After three months of carefully debating, and planning, I find selected my victim. There would be only one pattern to my crime. Women. Through, with regret, I would be killing women, the ones would mothered our children, the shiver of her skin under my hand made me realize that, yes, it was she. She wanted it. She wanted to let go, but was too cowardly to do it herself. So, I would offer her a choice, and then fulfill her wish.

I’ll let you choose your stage, dear. Then you can smile that mannequin smile, and act.


She would be my first. Her name was Abigail Simone, though she preferred everyone call her Simone. A pretty blonde-haired person, 5’4”, aged 26, and already she looked like she was in her late forties, her face like perfect marble, and when she smiled, you could see her face looked like a painted porcelain doll. Her eyes were deceptive, a dark blue. Electric against her pale skin, blond hair, and rosy lips; in the days of Hitler, she would have been the embodiment of perfection in his eyes. However, tonight, I would not be a tyrant towards her, I would simply offer her a choice. I haven’t shaved in three days, so of course I had a shaggy and rugged jaw line.

I knocked on the door, and she answered immediately. “ Lucas?” She asked as she answered the door in only a robe. She tightly held the robe closed, but I could still see purple and green undergarments. Her eyes widen, before soften into a smile. “ Hello. Are you the prostitute I hired from McGrath?”

I gave a tiny nodded, not giving her a solid answer. Her smile fell a little bit, but she stepped aside anyway, and held the door wide. “ Come in then. I’ve never done this before, you know, it’s kinda awkward for me, so do we just got straight into it, or do we go slowly?”

I said nothing. I simply looked around her house, and took in the way she lived. Her living room was over-crowded with large pieces of furniture against her bare white walls. The only pictures were the ones that lines the hallway, and even I could see that some that were hanging up had a nail through the glass and picture, come areas of the wall were beat in. In the kitchen, she had dishes in the sink, and piled on the table, sine uneaten food. Perhaps I interrupted her during a meal. I struggled to keep the look of disgust off my face. She was all fake smiles.

The thing about were she lived was in a neighborhood filled with drug dealers, prostitutes trying to make a living, and gangs fighting. There was constant shooting throughout the neighborhood, so even if her screams were heard, they would mistake them for something to do with the gangs rein of destruction. I pointed to the back, and she jumped as if startled by her movements. “ Oh, right, yeah, follow me.”

I followed her into her bedroom, and I must admit that I was shocked to see her bedroom thoroughly clean, unlike the rest of her house. She turned to look at me, sitting on the bed. She smiled again, coyly, this time, slipping her robe from her, then the strap of her cameo. “ Stop.” I said. She did, through confused.

“ A-am I doing something wrong?”

I shook my head. “ No, not at all.” I crossed the room, and stood in front of her. “ Abigail,” I began. “ You are a crack-addict and a prostitute, you have chosen a horrible, dirty life style. You want to escape it don’t you?” I paused to watch her nod her head. “ Then I offer you a choice. You can be a pathetic coward and not kill yourself, continue to live in this prison that every night that you are crouched on your knees, sucking off so married man with an STD you wish someone to save you. You have become something other than who often imagined yourself to be. The choice that I offer you is, I can give you a death, where you will be preserve the way you are suppose be, in beauty and wealth, or you can stay here on this hell on earth, and rot away to disease, and disgrace, and death.”

She stared at me for a moment as if unable to comprehend what it was I was saying. Then she thinned her lips into grimace type before giving a tiny nod of her head. “ Okay, then. Make me beautiful.”


It was funny the things people would do for beauty—eternal youth. My hand no longer is cramping, but I have that feeling like it’s been submerged in the water after a period of time, and then later when you’re no where near the water, it feels like your hands are still in it. You get that ghostly presence along your skin. That’s what my hand felt like; it felt like it was still covered in her blood.

What I did to her, she wanted for herself. A planned requiem for herself. . That was the beauty of the ‘crime’. She staged it with perfection and experts, something she never been able to do unless it came to her night-job. I wondered if the men and women and children she meet day to day as her job as a waitress could see through the fake smile she wore. I could. Now, as she sat slouched against a wall, a picture of herself from her teenage, drug-free days in one hand, her small stash of crack in the other hand. Behind her, a smudge of her blood was left on the wall, like a red waterfall of silk stained upon an empty canvas. I never once gave thought to mutilating my victims, but as she begged me to mark her as my first, I hesitated, and then gave into her request. This was her final tribute to the world.

My hand didn’t shake as I punched little tear-shaped holes under her tear ducts, blood flowing as tears, from both corners of each eye. She drew the inspiration of giving herself a clown smile from The Black Dahlia, and I told her I’d try my best. As I sliced the first edge to her cheek, I saw the blood that stood at march like soldiers, and it didn’t sicken me. It strangely excited me. I sliced the other cheek, as straight and pretty as I could, without getting much of her blood on me. “ Kiss me,” she begged me. “ Kiss me on my lips, please, one final kiss before I leave.”

I kissed her rosy lips, and when she smiled, the blood rose with her mutilated face and seemed flow like a waterfall. I watched in fascination as her eyes dimmed. It saddened me though that even though she smiled, most of the happiness, the humor wasn’t there. Therefore, instead of pure joy frozen within her dead and dull blue eyes, there was only half-contentment, like there was something in the world that she regretted not doing.

Even as I think about this, I realize that I must quickly set my sights upon me neck female.

Abigail Simone, age 26, 5’ 4”, blond, high school diploma, crack-addict, whore. That was her life story. Although there was way more to it, her horrible struggles as she tried to quit for her eight year old cousin, the pimp’s friends all breaking into her house and taking a shot at her experienced vagina. This seemed like an inappropriate thought of her. I mustn’t speak ill of the dead.

As all my victims, I decided that I would give each of the women a kiss--a kiss into a death. It was beautiful really, that when I pulled back, there wasn’t just shock on their face, no much better, helplessness, and happiness. Beauty. As I am looking at the scalpel that I used to slice her face in half, it seemed innocent. Like it could hold those human properties of virtuousness, ruse, and the promise of bereavement. Nevertheless, my instrument of death on passed on the impression that I left upon it, thus it felt that way.

Beauty is the sin that loses enviable interest. There was no mistaken it—vanity. If you threw one down Calmila Vard street any day, you’d be sure to hit at least a hundred, waiting to look at her, and steal some part of her that was desirable; like a crooked form of selective breeding. Choose the women with the most experience, the prettiest smile, the biggest breasts, the tightest backside, th e smartest mouth, and the deceptive eyes. It was all those vanity things that caused me to be saddened by the way women treated themselves. But, yes, they do have to make a living of their own.

Inappropriate. I keep finding myself talking about this subject, and it upsets me to have to drift from my intended subject to talk about the different types of things that’s wrong with our society. But, that will be for another time, it seems as though there are things that I still need to discuss. Like Abigail, I still have not explained the reason that I killed her. Besides the obvious fact of her life-style, there was more to it. than just that. Abigail Simone was a hard-working woman when she was in high school, and her first year in college. Bright future ahead of her as any teenager. She wanted to be a nurse. But how could she help someone when she couldn’t even help herself? College became harder, she lost sleep, couldn’t concentrate. She tried strong prescription sleeping pills, got addicted to pain-killers, got high of marijuana at some of the frat parties, got drunk and passed out on the lawn in front of her dorm. Called her mother and father, crying, wanting to give up, but she didn’t. She went back and met a man named Charlie Shnalien. He introduced her to the horrible miracle drug cocaine, and got her addicted. She was kicked out of college, got pregnant by a man who did want the woman now that she was pregnant with his child, and left her in the streets to do the only thing she could. Become a prostitute. Within the second month, she got high and drug, and flung herself down the stairs, cussing repeatedly at her unborn—and now dead—baby.

She worked at a McDonalds for a while, but she fired for stealing money and food from the cash register. Her boyfriend came back after a year, knocked on the door, and raped her. When he was done, he tossed a few dollars on her broken body, and said, “ you were always good at laying on your back.” He then left her, and disappeared from her life, returning for only sporadic and ‘untailored’ dealing. And that was how she got her start as a prostitute. That was the sad story of her.

If that was her sad story, then why would I be so cruel as to kill her when she clearly had enough done to her in life? The reason? Simply because that. She had enough done to her. And more was to be done to her if I did not do what she wanted done. She didn’t want to die from a gunshot, or cocaine overdose, or anything as humiliating as that. Simply I asked her her life story, memorized it, and nodded. She asked her which way she would like to die.

“ Painless isn’t an option. I want you to mark me.”

“ How?”

“ Have you seen the movie The Black Dahlia?”

I nodded. Of course I have. It was only natural that I did, and might I say the twists in the plot was brilliant.

“ Then I want you to do that to me. Mark me, make ma a real smile. I don’t know how to truly smile.” She laughed. “ Mother said she wanted to see me smile for real before she died…now she will.”

As I placed the scalpel at the edge of her wide pink mouth, I whispered, “ I’ll be gentle.”

She turned those electric blue eyes on me, and I could see a small piece of the real Abigail. “ Who ever said I wanted you to be gentle?”

I thinned my mouth into a thin line of determination. “ You’ll be my first.”

“ Good then. I’m glad you’re mine.”

Perhaps you think this is the dialogue that I have created myself, in my sick head maybe? Something I imagined. Nay, that is not the case. I even have her gentle voice pleading for me to do this recorded, and I’m playing it back at the moment. Listening not only to what she was saying, but her voice. She wanted this, and she anticipated it.

“ Thank you,” she whispered. I didn’t say anything, only, “ I’m sorry for what happened in your life.”

She didn’t reply for she was dead then.

Good then, I didn’t disappoint her. I would’ve hated to.

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