by V. F. Mason
Serial killers consist usually of psychopaths and sociopaths, right? They don’t have any emotions, but what is he displaying? He shouldn’t feel all those things.
It almost seems like he is hurt by my words, but why? Surely he understands no woman would be happy with a monster like him.
I press the heel of my palm into my chest, because the sudden throb there disturbs my mind, while my insides urge me to go after him and soothe his pain.
That maybe everything is not as it seems, that maybe there is an explanation to this madness.
But unfortunately for me, I’ve seen everything with my own eyes, and there is no running away from the truth.
In this moment, I almost hate Emilio for sending me here.
* * *
Eugene
Pressing several numbers on the keypad next to the steel door, I enter and shut it quietly, not wanting to strain Lila’s nerves more.
Although, with her attitude toward me, maybe I should act like the fucking monster she calls me.
I grab the phone and dial Emilio’s number, and he picks up on the second ring. “Late call, brother.” I hear several male voices in the background along with a card deck being shuffled around, so I know he is now at the Cosa Nostra headquarters.
“You betrayed me.”
Silence greets my statement, but then he puffs his cigarette, replying, “I did the right thing.”
“Right.” I barely control the laughter that threatens to slip past my lips but don’t want to show anyone my emotions right now. “She is shaking in fear and calls me a monster every other second.”
“She needs time.”
“You know what happened to her. She is reliving a nightmare because of you.”
His deep chuckle echoes in my ear, and I fist my hand, punching the table, imagining his face instead of it. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Jake, I’m sorry, but did you really think you’d be able to hide it?”
“I trusted you with information. You didn’t keep your end of the bargain.”
“Yeah, blame me.”
Fed up with his attitude, I hang up on him without any further words while different scenarios play in my brain.
Lila needs to listen to me, but she refuses, and I can’t get the look in her eyes out of my head. Like I’m a stranger who is set on hurting her, when in reality I’m a man who is only set on being with her.
Let me go.
If I could, I would have honored her request and let her go. But in this life of darkness, she is my only light. She brings out emotions in me I thought I wasn’t capable of.
Knowing what having her means, forever seals her fate with me.
Life gives us plenty of choices.
But Lila lost all of hers when she became mine.
The beast won and claimed the princess, and there is no point in waiting for a prince.
The fairytale is over.
* * *
Lila
I tremble after a door shuts somewhere down the hall and shift my attention to the library. My eyes catch some weird paintings in the back, and I walk slowly to them, noticing the books around me are all hardcovers.
Snatching one of them, I inhale the rich smell of the book. My grandma used to say that each book has its own story and smell, a special aura that allows you to dive into it and forget about reality for the time being.
While I didn’t share her love for them, I was always mesmerized by the art hiding inside it.
We artists show our imagination on canvases; they hold our pain and happiness like a badge of honor. Writers do it with words, so I inhale the rich smell of something akin to dust and wet paper, and instantly it takes me back to those times when I was a curious little girl trapped in a summer house when no one cared about me.
Seems me and libraries have a special relationship after all.
Flipping the book over, I notice it’s The Odyssey by Homer and quickly read a few verses.
The idea of a man spending almost a lifetime going back to the one he loved always fascinated me to no end.
A man who lives for you.
The snapping of the book resounds in the room when I shut it and place it back on the shelf. “Wrong, it’s wrong,” I murmur, taking a deep breath and continuing my journey toward the paintings, and stop dead when I see so many canvases.
Not because of their quantity, but the images of the beautiful woman displayed on them.
She has rich blonde tresses, shimmering blue eyes, and she lifts her head to the sun, laughing about something. Her tanned skin emphasizes her almost perfect beauty that one might wonder if such a woman can exist in this world.
In different variations, the woman is blissfully happy, either in the garden or in the library, holding books and cookies.
My gaze travels to the wall behind the canvases, and this time I see various photos of a happy family doing all kinds of things. From walking in the park, to birthday celebrations, and finally, the last is a picture of a little boy hugging his mama close while she rests her chin on his head.
I wince as my temples start to throb and I rub them a little, hoping to ease the discomfort, but it doesn’t go away.
Because a memory from a long, long time ago slams into me so hard I sway a little to the side.
The police still search for Georgia Harrison and her son, Jake, who were kidnapped two days ago. If you’ve seen either of them, please let us know.
“Oh, no,” I say and close my eyes, willing the awful radio voice to disappear, but it continues to talk.
Georgia Harrison has been killed by an unknown man. The police are trying….
“Jake Harrison.” The name finally makes sense to me, taking me back in time to when my parents took me to Houston for the funeral of one of their friends.
But the most vivid memory is the little boy who continued to stare at his mother’s coffin while not shedding one single tear.
Just stood there so motionless that I thought he was a doll.
“Oh my God.” Is this his trauma?
The deep pain that doesn’t go away and demands him to harm other people?
I spin around and run toward the hallway, shouting, “Eugene!” But he is nowhere to be found. “Eugene!” Still no reply, so I go from room to room where nothing but silence and dust greet me.
Finally, I hear buzzing sounds coming from the basement, because the door is wide open.
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I take a deep breath and enter hell once again, because I need to know.
“Eugene?” I call, my feet slapping against the stairs, and he finally comes into view, standing by the table sharpening knives, it seems.
“How the mighty have fallen,” he says and looks at me over his shoulder. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“Eugene, I saw—” I want to ask him a myriad of questions, which might be stupid, because it doesn’t really excuse anything he has done, but my eyes catch the bulletin board across from him.
Black and white photos of men with notes next to their names.
Sam, Tim, and Ben, along with a bunch of others I don’t know.
Their crimes are more horrifying than the others, and there are also images of them dead, lying on the table in pools of blood.
“Oh my God,” I whimper and sink to the stairs, covering my mouth with my hands.
If all of those are his victims, then none of the men he’s killed have been innocent.
But does it matter who he punishes, if the outcome makes him a serial killer?
Chapter Twelve
Eugene, 15 years old
* * *
“That’s the guy.” I hear the whispers behind my back but continue to walk down the hallway to the library, ignoring the curious looks thrown my way.
After almost eight years of this shit, I’m used to them. But then again, a boy who survived a kidnapping while his mother didn’t is almost unheard of, because serial killers usually kill kids first.
So Eugene Harrison, aka me, is the anomaly in this city.
When I walk into the library, my steps echo through it, and several people snap their gazes from their books. Some of them confused, because it’s finals week, and some annoyed, since they’re studying.
But mostly they all have this odd expression, as if they don’t know when my control will snap.
The librarian Annette smiles brightly at me when I put the books on the counter, and she points at the long shelf on her right. “We have some new books on topics you like. Want to check them out?” Her blonde hair hangs around her face, and in her blue eyes that remind me so much of my mother is hope that her behavior may change something.
Even though I’m already beyond saving. But her resemblance to my mother is the only reason I reply, “Sure.” Instead of flat out telling her to go to hell.
Any kind of angry outburst by me is forgiven at my school, because Dad is their biggest sponsor. And besides, I don’t hang around with anyone much for it to be an issue.
I walk to the far corner and notice a pile of books, all glossier than the others, and I wonder if the principal mentioned my reading habit to my father again.
The old man has been trying to do everything in his power for me to forget the nightmares, so any of my wishes is a damn command. Sometimes I want to ask my father what the hell happened to the man I grew up with, but then seeing the paintings done by him is enough to understand his pain.
He just doesn’t have the privilege of showing it.
I pick up several of the books, flipping through them, but none grabs my interest. They are either about history or architecture, which are interesting subjects, but mostly boring as fuck for me lately.
Then my eyes land on the brown book with the title in big, gold letters Forensic Psychology. I open it in the middle and end up on an unexpected chapter. “Serial Killers and Their Early Traits.” I read, and my backpack falls from my shoulder to my elbow, so I drop into the nearest chair and engross myself in one of the most fascinating books of my life.
And this book changes everything.
Along with the truth that comes a few years later.
* * *
New York, New York
1981
* * *
Eugene
Tipping the sharp end of the knife, I place it on the magnet keeping them all together on the board and take another one. “Used that one a lot this month, so I’m making sure it’s in the best condition.” That’s the most idiotic sentence I’ve ever said, but I chuckle when she pales and gets up swiftly. “No questions?”
She comes closer, still zeroing her gaze on the board, and her mouth falls open. Then she closes it and swallows hard. “Ah, you saw the pictures. They don’t require introduction, right?” I begin to sharpen the knife, the sound grating on my ears but allowing me to get a grip on my emotions.
Having her here in my basement where I inflict the vilest desires and actions on human flesh… is fascinating and disgusting at the same time.
And for the first time, I acknowledge the merit in Emilio’s words. My darkness will always be part of me, and sooner or later, she’d have found out about it.
Because that darkness would have demanded that she accept me, all of me, without any reservations.
I’m not sure people like me can love, or know what love is. But everything in me wants, no needs, to protect her… and desire her like no one else. She belongs to me. I rescued her and watched over her. I’ve been the only constant in her life.
She might not see it this way, but that’s the truth she can’t hide from.
“You know.” She clears her throat, her fingers digging into her scalp, and I shift a little to get a better look at her.
She scans the board from side to side, and I can’t grasp the emotions flashing in her eyes. Is it relief? “You were the man who helped me that night?”
“The one and only.” I finish with the knife, hang it on the magnet, and remove the gloves. “No need to thank me.”
“How did you know?” She pulls at her hair now, screaming in my direction when she spins around to face me. “How did you know where to find me?” She sprints to me, fury flashing in her eyes, and hits me hard in the chest, even though I barely feel it. “Was it fun watching me being tortured for so long?” Hit. “Did you get off on my suffering and then have to save me from the fire, so no one would permanently damage your toy?” Hit. Hit. Hit.
Locking her wrists in my hand, I push her against the nearest wall and press my body into hers. “I got into an accident on my bike while I trailed after the fucking cab that took you to that place.”
“What?”
“I broke a few fingers but used all my resources to find you. And the minute I did, I created the fire and got you out.” Her brows furrow while confusion settles over her features, and she shakes her head. “I couldn’t kill them then, Lila.” I slam my hand above her head, and she jerks in my arms. “An easy death would never have been enough for them. They deserved everything I dished out to them.” I step away, pacing back and forth, all while she still stands by the wall, blinking rapidly.
But then she asks me the question that freezes me on the spot and takes me back to a time I want to forget.
A question that explains everything.
A question that reminds me of my beginnings.
A question that the answer will forever cement her view of me.
“What really happened to your mom?”
* * *
Lila
Eugene lets me go, steps back, and breathes heavily while I wrack my mind for any kind of clue to his behavior.
His truth will never change the outcome of our situation. After all, no matter the reasons, he is a killer. But I want to know what happened that made the successful heir choose this life of death and gore.
A life where no one will truly love you if they know your real face.
Or maybe it’s a selfish desire for him to give me a reason to excuse my love for him. “Eugene, tell me.”
His bitter laughter sends chills down my spine, right before he grabs the knife from the table and drags me upstairs, all while my feet slap harshly against the steps, bruising my skin.
“You’re hurting me,” I cry, twisting my wrist in his grip, but it’s useless against his strength. The skin around his knuckles whitens, and I groan in pain, while the sting travels through me. “Jake!” But he doesn’t listen. Instead, he takes me through various hallways and up the stairs, probably moving to my room.
“Since you call me a monster, I’d say it’s very fitting, don’t you think?” He kicks the door open and throws me inside, where I land on my side on the bed and bounce a little.
Pushing the hair from my forehead back, I gaze at him while he paces the floor, back and forth, his arms behind his head, which allows me to see his muscles flex with each step.
He reminds me of a caged lion looking for a way out, but none is in sight.
I didn’t know helpless prey like me had such power.
“You telling me the truth won’t change anything,” I say again, because the silence becomes unbearable. “I’m forever a prisoner in your castle.” The lie slips past my lips so easily I’m surprised myself. But for him to relax in my presence and give me any kind of an out… a hunter has to lose his focus.
And he can only do that while the iron control he has over himself is stripped bare.
Then he’ll make a mistake, and I will use it to my advantage, even if it makes me a heartless bitch. But I can’t be a woman who stays with a serial killer.
I just can’t.
“He killed her.” I freeze when he starts to talk, resting his back against the fireplace wall while the logs still burn brightly, and then he adds another one, the crackling sound giving our conversation an even darker tone, if that’s possible. “Not in the traditional sense of the word, of course.” He chuckles, but it sounds more like self-loa
thing. “You see, my father loved my mother like a madman. He constantly drew her, and I found it touching.” I stay silent, afraid if I speak, he’ll stop talking. “But I found this book in the library you know. About serial killers. I was so fascinated with this I memorized it. And then I started to see clues in Dad.”
Oh my God.
Was his father a serial killer too?
He must have noticed my expression, because he waves his hand as if dismissing my thoughts. “No, my love. He wasn’t. Don’t worry. It’s not genetic in this case.” He waits a beat, another crackle sounds, and he continues. “But he obsessively loved her so much she couldn’t breathe with his love. Perfect wife, mother, friend, yet all she truly wanted was to die. So, my mother decided to divorce him.”
I’m not sure I want to listen to it anymore, because agony slips between his words, alerting me to how much pain it once brought.
Or maybe still brings.
But I asked for it, so I need to sleep in my own bed now. “He didn’t give it to her. So, he created a plan. His wife would be kidnapped, and he’d save her. He’d forever be her hero, and she wouldn’t leave him.”
“My God.”
He clicks his fingers, ignoring me. “But the plan failed, because the guy he hired, he knew my father’s worth, and he wanted more money. And when it wasn’t delivered, he killed my mom.”
“I’m so sor—”
“I don’t need your pity,” he says coldly, walking to the small table with a bottle of whiskey on it and pouring himself a drink. “Where was I? Ah, yes. So Dad, in his obsessive desire, lost his wife and son as a result.” He laughs, the bitterness of it chilling my bones. “How ironic that his obsession became his ultimate downfall.”
“You killed him,” I conclude, because every serial killer has a trigger and a first victim. After the trauma he experienced as a child, watching his mom die in front of him, then the kidnapping and isolation. His dad’s true identity probably broke the camel’s back.
He sips his whiskey—more like gulps it—before throwing the glass on the floor where it shatters all over the place, the smell of alcohol filling the space. “I should have. Me telling him I knew was enough for his heart to give up. He couldn’t face me, the last link to the love of his life… hating him.” He gazes into space, completely in a trance. “I think he would have been less devastated if he’d just lost me. But her? Oh, he couldn’t live without her.”