Lying on the floor of his plain, padded, white home, staring up at the ceiling which he knew as well as the back of his scarred scabby hand, he drifted in and out of consciousness. His cell was not big, just big enough to fit 6 feet and 1 inch of his bulky body. The only company his plain ivory bed; no bed sheets or pillows or even a mattress. He didn’t mind, he mostly slept on the floor anyway. It helped his back. As he was thinking of the dull pain in his shoulder blades, his mind drifted into the past, recalling the way he had suffered the injury...
She was not as tough as the others. She wasn’t as aware of her surroundings as the others and this ultimately sealed her fate, making it easier for the fiend, now in the padded cell. He had watched her for days, stalking her at her place of work; a small office owned by BT for call workers. This is where he had come across her first. ‘I like your voice’ he had said on the phone that day. She had seemed rude after that and had hung up soon after. The rejection was too much for him as it had been from an early stage of his life. Being the evil genius that he was, he had already formulated a plan to confront the woman. A delivery man’s outfit (from a previous victim) was his attire on the innocent woman’s last day. He had all the ingredients ready to find the woman. His anger, perhaps, had forced him to forget to plan the escape route after the knife was delivered in the woman’s neck.
The sun was shining gloriously outside the small office building on that fateful Tuesday morning. The monster basked in the glory of the warmth shining on his face. He waited outside to see the
woman enter the building and as he did so, a fortuitous moment occurred which would make this atrocity almost too easy for the clinically insane fiend. An average looking woman with shoulder length
blonde hair, not unattractive, walked past speaking on her mobile phone. He instantly recognised the unmistakable voice. Jessica (he knew her first name from the phone call) walked past him, aiming
a polite smile toward the delivery man waiting outside. He followed her inside, for a split second considering getting the massacre over with at that moment. ‘That would ruin the fun’ he thought to
himself, just before the dark haired male receptionist greeted the woman. ‘Good morning Miss Parker’ the man had said. A flood of gratitude rushed through him towards the receptionist. This really
would be too easy. He slowed his footsteps and forced a polite, smiling facade to the forefront of the receptionist’s vision. ‘Good morning, how can I help you?’
‘I have a package for Miss Jessica Parker’ he replied in the most polite voice he could muster from the evil boiling inside him. The all too trusting and naive receptionist described the exact location of the next fatality’s desk. An evil smile spread across his face as he walked through the set of old squeaky doors to the left of the reception. The grey carpet met the monster’s feet, causing his heart rate to rise, as was custom, just before the innocent looking delivery man performed the massacre. The closer he came to ending the innocent woman’s life, the calmer the monster became, only feeling truly comfortable during one of these evil acts. The reason for this calmness was the blatant arrogance which he also possessed, stemming from the countless number of times he had not been caught.
As he saw his newest victim, just over the heads of two of her colleagues, the polite facade was put back in place, ready to fool the woman into thinking she was safe.
‘Package for Miss Parker’, he said as he walked into the 9th row of work stations, at the back of the room. A slight hint of panic was exposed on the woman’s face as the familiar voice registered in her brain. By the time she had looked up the knife had stabbed her twice already in the side of her neck, rendering her voice helpless as a gurgle emanated from her throat, spraying blood onto the face of the merciless creature. Her cry for help. He was enjoying this a little too much. The insanity in his face was there to see as the woman took her last breath while the blood poured onto the disinterested old carpet below. The first blow he felt came just after the tenth wound to the woman’s severed neck. The sound of breaking wood rushed to his ears to explain the painful injury. The fifteenth stab wound was the last of them as the erratic, blood stained face revolved around to meet his attacker. A flash of broken wood was the last vision in his despicable mind before the blackness engulfed him.
The opening of his cell door met him as the day dream came to an abrupt end. The handcuffs were slapped on before he could even look at the guard’s obligatory frightened face. This was his daily meeting with the psychologist. The psychologist didn’t annoy him like most people did. Today he decided to do as he was asked, to put on the same facade he had used for so many of his victims. The doctor requested that he write down exactly what he had felt while killing his victims. There was a hurried tone in his voice which usually had a calming influence. The hurried doctor grabbed the paper with the mad man’s description of his feelings during his killing spree and immediately walked out. He had forgotten the pen. The vicious lunatic moved the quickest he had in his entire life, removing the pen from the table in front of him and keeping it securely hidden inside his long right arm sleeve. The guard returned to the room seconds after, frightened face intact. The guard stopped for a fraction of a second, flabbergasted at the politeness of the greeting from his prisoner, continuing at a slower pace, yet slapping the handcuffs on as fast as he ever had. As the two reached the homicidal maniac’s new home, the broad smile could not be hidden from his face. The pen up his sleeve was the reason behind it. His heart raced for a moment as they both entered the cell and his heart continued to accelerate as the handcuffs came off. Calmness swept over the creature as the pen slid down his arm, landing in his open hand….the pen was in the guard’s throat before he could shout for help. Now he had a gun too. ‘Nicely handled’ he said to himself with a smirk on his face, trying and failing to hold back his high pitched laughter, as he stood on the guard’s chest and walked over him towards the open steel door and towards the end of all the other insignificant lives in the annoyingly white place.
© Copyright 2016 Stuart Pirie. All rights reserved.
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