The Kissing Light
“This is the prayer I pray every night that I lay awake, on the edge of the bed, Amanda tossing and turning in the sheets behind me. The words come quickly as I resist the hunger. Or perhaps I did not resist it. “
March 20, 2007
Two days have passed since the death of Abigail Simone. And no one has found her as of yet in her home, smiling widely like a mannequin, with the red painted smile. She was freed from everything that she had become, everything she despised and pitied. I could still recall the sight of her, I took a picture, and even though I looked the picture, it could not provide all the other details of standing there in a room full of death, and disappointment, and sorrow. But in the under-laying stench of all of that, there was life and pride. It took someone who knew the smell to identify it. It took someone who stood there long after she was dead to recognize her sadness, how she despised herself, how she dare not disgrace the image of her family upon her walls. I gave a smile. Yes, I stared at the photograph and retook everything in. Her pale blond hair—almost white—barely matted with blood. It fell like silk against the side of her neck. I remembered the way it tickled me. Her dull blue eyes with red—brown now, no doubt—streaks of bloody tears.
Her hands clutching her picture, the other lingering on the bag of cocaine, her thin wrist marked with my tattoo. I will not reveal this tattoo, let you research it is meaning a bit. The hog is what I choose for her, though. The hog had commendable courage, but at the end of day, the hog was on our dinner table.
I already had my sights on my next target. Though I wanted to make good progress, I dared not move too fast. I made complete sure that I couldn’t be placed at the scene of the crime, no one saw me, and if they did, they couldn’t link me. Right now, I couldn’t help but remember now also the sight of Julie. I wondered how she would look when time took its toll on that caramel face, and that beautiful body, I decided no matter what, she would still look beautiful 10, 15, 20 years from her 27 year old features now. She was just a year younger than I, but her wisdom seemed far beyond her years.
Even now, as I remembered instead of Abigail’s beautiful requiem, Julie lying there, innocently upon her bed, it was more beautiful than anyone could’ve created. It wasn’t something man-made, and it wasn’t staged. It was simply. I had hoped to create the closest substitute, and I have. However, for this price, I had eliminated the sense that I wanted to capture—liberation, but she wanted beauty, and for that, she got only a prison. A prison in which many women today were trapped. Dressed up, and made to try to fit some social standard, like the Barbie doll. Every woman wanted to be one, every man wanted one.
This entry is only half a page, and already I grow tired of writing, but I must not fail my admirers, and yes, you may say that I am conceited, but no, I am not. If you are still reading this, even after labeling me, pompous, sadistic, psychotic, tyrant, whatever other over-used you may have come up with, or surprisingly creative uses for words, but nonetheless, you have become a fan. Essentially a fan observes and follows all their idols or favorite whomever’s work, so by reading this, and not putting it down, throwing it far away from your haven of safety, (or at least I hope it is for you) then you have without a doubt become my fan. Alternatively, simply you could only be wishing to understand my logic, my justification for killing. Nevertheless, truly, there is never a justification for anything. For example, the ever said, “ Self-defense is not murder,” indeed, it is not. According to perhaps someone’s religion, taking another’s life is murder. Murder—the unlawful premeditated killing of a human being. Nevertheless, did not premeditated mean to consider, plan, before hand? Therefore, while you defended yourself, you killed him before hand. It is our right to protect our selves. Self-preservation. Yet again, it can be considered an act of murder, as war. Perhaps that did not make sense to you, but it does within my head.
But you are crazy. That’s what you honestly think? Trust me, if I were, I could not have the sense to write coherent thoughts, or question my own insanity. I have questioned myself many times before I killed Abigail. But now, I must leave you, to go…and relieve myself with Amanda. My thoughts have strayed once again to Julie, and this has become painful. Insert cheeky smile here
Good night, dears, you can turn off your lights now.
Why do you fight it so much?
That is the first question that I asked myself. It is a question that another part of me asks every night. And I never have an answer to that question. It grates at the walls of my mind constantly, a question that I have not bothered to answer. It was not like I could, because if I could, I could not pass later, if I was ever caught, as mentally insane.
Why do you fight it so much?
I do not know why I fight it so much. Maybe I do not fight it at all. The fact is I will not answer that question. Maybe not until late in the night, as I say Psalm 32: Blessed us he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered. Blessed is the man unto whom the LORD imputheth not iniquity, and in whose spirit there is no guile. When I kept silence, my bones waxed old through my roaring all day long. For all day and night thy hand was heavy upon me: my moisture is turned into the drought of summer. Selah. I acknowledge my sin unto thee, and mine iniquity have I not hid. I said I will confess my transgressions unto the LORD; and thou forgavest the iniquity of my sin. Selah. Amen.
This is the prayer I pray every night that I lay awake, on the edge of the bed, Amanda tossing and turning in the sheets behind me. The words come quickly as I resist the hunger. Or perhaps I did not resist it.
Later tonight, I pulled up in front of Michelle Hitnem and Joel Michne at a restaurant . She was a pretty redhead, flowing fiery hair that stopped just below her shoulder. I did not know why redheads were so appealing, perhaps it was because of their rarity, or their fabled intelligence. Redheads were the most attractive, brunettes were the intellects, and blonds were the dim-witted ones. Interesting how most stereotypes were correct in such.
She was laughing with her adopted brother, both candidates to be the object of my desire. Both fiery redheads, one with blue eyes, the other with green. They were the same height, same weight about, same size all around—petite. They could, in fact, pass as twins, except for one was a year older, and her features were elfish, more slashed, while the younger had an open, and childish face. They seemed so happy carefree. Funny, how they both acted like brother and sister in public, but when it came to behind doors, they were far more affectionate than brother and sister should ever be. There was that crooked smile as they got in the car and drove away. I was curious, and could not help myself followed them at a safe distance to keep them in sight, but them not see me.
We parked at an apartment complex. They lived on the third floor, but there was an apartment across the way that provided the perfect view of the bedroom. I silently slipped in the room, takes to me little lock-picker that I always keep in my pocket. I went to the window and stared out. Michelle and Joel were already in the midst of intercourse; the blinds all open as I could hear their moaning in my head. I could be creeping in the hall leading to their room, a dry freezer bag tied over my hand, the gun pointing at them. As their scream of released came, it would be followed in synchronization by two bullets shots into their pleasure and shock filled face. The echoing of the gunshots brought me back, and I knew I was not alone in the room.
I turned around to see Julie, standing there. I blinked in mild confusion. What kind of person would she think I was coming in this abandoned apartment to watch a couple having sex with their blinds open? I froze, lies coming to my tongue, but I did not want to lie to her. Not until the right time came at least.
She seemed surprised to see me here, but she only smiled when she saw my suspicion when she laughed. “ Well,” she began almost embarrassed, “ I didn’t expect anyone else to be here…um, er, watching their little show.”
I raised my eyebrow. “ Why would you be up here, Dr. Ampatheitnic?”
“ I...do photography on the side of my profession, and they are my subjects. They have been for months.” She raised her bulky black camera that I did not notice in her hand. It was a gesture as if she was trying to justify her reason.
“ Then why up here, and not down there with them…in the room.”
“ We’ve already done that…first Mr. Michne was, too…distracted. All in all, we are trying it from different angles. The personal, and the forbidden, far away type…like, like an intruder stepping in on a sacred ceremony.”
I nodded, rocking on my heels, my hands in my silk pants. The material rustled with the movements, like a gentle flutter. Or the sound of a camera flutter.
Bam! Bam! Each sound was punctuated with a different identity. It echoed in my head, and I was sure it would always. The sound of her voice slicing through my reverie.
“ What was that again?” I asked.
“ I asked if I can get a picture of you, standing like that…looking down upon them.”
I nodded. “ Sure.”
“ So why are you?” I heard her take a few pictures within that moment of silence. “ I mean, watching them.”
I shrugged nonchalantly… “ They are my subjects as well on an entirely different matter.”
“ Really? And what’s that?”
“ Death.” I whispered. Even the shuttering of the camera didn’t answer in the silence. “ Death in all it’s forms.”
She didn’t answer. And I wondered if she knew in what way I meant.
I stare at the bullet in my left hand. A name carved into it’s side, and a little message as well. I bet you are wondering what it’s for. I suppose for this purpose of they story, if I ever was to get caught, if I ever couldn’t handle what I’ve done, I should take my life. Have you ever wondered what goes through someone’s head as they are dying? I know I would not think of my life for I hate it. I would think of one thing, and only one thing.
Julie, I carved your name into this bullet so everyone will know what was the last thing going through my mind.
I put the bullet in the desk drawer every night, lock it, and pocket the key.
© Copyright 2016 Twisted. All rights reserved.
Book / Fantasy
Book / Thrillers
Short Story / Fantasy
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