My Pet Serial Killer

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My Pet Serial Killer Page 3

by Michael J Seidlinger


  “Fuck.”

  “That guy’s a pro at this.”

  Seconds later the man returns from the lounge alone.

  “Look he’s back.”

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “Don’t know.”

  The man effortlessly weaves in and around the dance floor to a blonde with red streaks and a pink top. He reaches out and grabs her hand. Holding her hand, the man whispers something in her ear. It looks like the girl’s laughing. The man takes her by the hand just like the redhead and he walks out of sight.

  “The guy’s a savant, man.”

  “Damn man, he’s back again.”

  “He’s going for that hot blonde hanging near the DJ.”

  “Okay this is ridiculous. What’s he doing?”

  “Fuck if I know.”

  “We have to talk to him.”

  “He’s already leaving with the girl.”

  “Stockpiling girls, he’ll be back.”

  The man returns and the two young guys nod.

  “See?”

  “Well then let’s talk to him before he leaves.”

  “Right.”

  The two guys have no trouble walking up to the man. I don’t hear what they hear because I’m moving into position. I want to meet this man. He’s all I’m watching, and he’s all I’m going to be thinking about until I find out whether or not he’s my type.

  I’m pushing through the dance floor when the man spots me.

  We exchange a look. It’s right then that I know:

  He is my type.

  The man passes a little piece of paper to one of the young guys. The man coolly leaves the two guys fawning over the piece of paper. I’m his next target.

  He walks over to me. The two guys are watching, dazed and utterly confused.

  I say something, he says something. We speak like we’re sharing the same life story.

  We are walking by, towards the hallway, towards the lounge.

  The man passes nods towards the two young guys as we pass.

  To them, I’m just another attractive female being picked up by a professional.

  There’s a lot going on that few will ever notice. So quickly the scene changes. If you don’t know the threats and the patterns, the looks and the temptations, you’ll never get past the fact that it’s just a night club. It’s never just a night club, just like it’s never just a party.

  Peel back the surface layer and you’ll find a dozen more. The pickup game is played on as many levels as there are pickup lines.

  Now the two young guys are the ones watching, huddled together, unaware of the fact that I am the one that picked up the man and not the other way around.

  What was said between the two of us remains a closely guarded secret. Like the two young guys, you’ll never know what we shared.

  When we’re gone, the two young guys read what’s on the scrap of paper:

  “You just witnessed the death of women. You are accessories to their murder.”

  3.

  I went to class.

  Had trouble paying attention. Didn’t really participate. When there are only ten in the class, professor always notices who speaks versus who doesn’t speak.

  Frankly I really don’t care.

  There’s a serial killer back at my apartment, sleeping.

  I have that to go home to.

  Which is why I couldn’t have cared. A, B, C, or D. . .

  Couldn’t give a fuck. I’ve saved it all for him.

  Just give me the grade and let me go.

  4.

  I’d like to keep last night a secret so that it can be remain selfishly mine, but that was before I felt whole again. I have to gush, if only a little. So here I am, talking to myself, maybe hoping someone else on the bus to campus is listening, but everyone here has their headphones on, ears pressed to cellphones, text messages and video-screens demanding their full attention.

  So I’m kind of thinking I should talk a little bit about what this leads to, but I can’t talk about later if it hasn’t happened yet, even if I know what will happen.

  I can’t, I won’t. I’ll start with what already happened.

  I’ll start with last night.

  He was someone with potential. Someone that was my type, but just because I brought him home didn’t mean it would build up to anything.

  But, thankfully, it did.

  I brought him home. I brought him inside, showing him around. Little did either of us realize at the time that this was the tour of what would be his new home. It’s just like any other apartment–kitchen, two bedrooms, and a common area—except for what I had done to the common area. All the other rooms looked like they belonged, but not the common area.

  Across what should have opened up into the balcony was a grey wall. Across all three walls I had studio-quality soundproofing installed. Where the common area should have linked up with the hallway, where we’d use to come and go from the apartment as we pleased, stood a window without a frame.

  You had to crawl through the window to get into what was an insulated cage.

  The floors are carpeted everywhere within. I had someone come in and shave down the carpet bare, installing smooth linoleum where it mattered most.

  Since having it all done, it has seen some use.

  Before we went to bed, he gave it a look, tapping the soundproofed walls, listening for any faults, but I knew there weren’t. It was perfect.

  The moment, me observing him, was perfect.

  He hadn’t trusted me or understood what I had to offer. And in a way I hadn’t yet really mustered up the right lines, much less anything but a few empty words.

  This night was only about mending.

  I’d been alone for such a long time. . . I was only looking to be consumed for one night.

  Poking his head through the window, he asked me, “Were you looking for me?”

  I had picked him up so I didn’t have to say anything. Not a single word if I didn’t want to. It was he that was required to do the talking. Whatever I did, it was optional. My choice.

  “Were you anticipating my presence?”

  He could tell the cage would be perfect for his work.

  “It’s built with the best quality materials.”

  He nodded.

  “Got to be prepared.”

  A hand over his slicked back hair loosened a strand and it fell over his left eye. Before he could brush it back, I grabbed him and showed him my bedroom.

  I showed him me, and all that I could be. He showed me what he was, and where he had been. In each of us was a brand new, unfamiliar city full of delights and desires never before experienced. Bed was our bus stop. We wanted to explore each other’s cities.

  And it was then that I felt it:

  He was the one I’d been searching for.

  We slept near each other, arms crossed, elbows touching. Somewhere between sleep and awake, I could feel myself trembling. I was feeling his arms reaching around me, bringing me close. Connected, together, I didn’t have to observe. I could feel every twitch and touch as it entered and exited my body, his body, my voice, his voice.

  He dared not cut my skin like he had all women in his life, and I treated this knowledge not with surprise, but expectation. It was I that picked him up, and it was I that would drop him down. I’d be the one directing what can and will happen versus what won’t and never will occur.

  Early morning I watched him sleep in the minutes before I had to leave for what would inevitably be yet another one of those days, as repetitious and predictable as pulling the trigger of a gun. I would go only to return hours later, feeling as though I’ve wasted my time. But now I had something to make up for the hours I’d lose.

  I wasn’t worried whether or not he’d be there when I got back from class. I was someone he’d never met before. He’d met his match.

  Would he satisfy me like I’d satisfy him?

  I wondered if he knew what he was getting himself into.

&n
bsp; Who he was would soon turn into who I pictured him to be.

  Who I am would be his saving grace.

  What I feel is what most people feel when they say they are in love. Am I in love? To that I say, who can truly be in love with anyone but themselves?

  After last night, it was obvious there was going to be a lot more to experience and explore together as one, as individuals, as visitors of each other’s bodies.

  There can be no shame in the secrets we keep to ourselves.

  But this secret, I’m forcing myself to let it out into the wilds of indifference.

  I can’t help it, just like I can’t help the frenzy of wanton avarice soon to follow.

  5.

  No matter what the film’s about, everyone ends up traveling. It’s a mystery that anyone knows what the hell’s going on this early in the narrative, but you have to keep with it. You’ve got to be patient and observant until the mystery unfolds.

  Keep on driving until it all makes sense.

  Some drive until the road ends. Some turn around and try learning a different road. Some never find a place with their name on it. They commit to theories that speak of a life that only ends up coiled around mystery.

  It’s always a matter of having grown too comfortable, too confused, for the people and places shared. Everyone becomes a part of a mystery that can’t be solved.

  Fade in on the mystery driving down the interstate picking up theories.

  Theories like to hitchhike using red gloves. Look for them. Thumbs up!

  Without too much time, the scene evolves to include a subject. She stands in the rain, hair and clothing glued to her frame. Soaked, but still hopeful, she holds that thumb out for all to see.

  Why are you hitchhiking in this weather?

  Nowhere else to go. Have to keep going. Why? I have to find something to live for.

  There’s room in this car for one more.

  Of course she’s thankful. They all are.

  Watch as the clothes come off. Mind if I dry up?

  Of course not. Showing some skin is good for the critics; it’s good for any horror flick.

  Can’t have horror without some honest and wholesome nudity.

  She’s down to her wet underwear and she’s wearing white today. Might as well not even wear the underwear.

  There are some clothes in her bag.

  Fresh shirt and mesh shorts.

  Cover up. That’s better. Bearing all for just long enough for the voyeur’s glimpse.

  Watch as the mystery continues to elude her inquiries.

  The passenger’s a naïve blabbermouth.

  Where she’s going. What’s the point? Why not take a bus? Aren’t you scared? Felt like touring the country. Never have. I don’t know what’s out there. Oh, there’s a lot out there.

  So much of the country is a mystery.

  The mystery is about to take a sharp turn.

  She’s getting comfortable. She reclines back, making it so much easier to see past the front seats.

  Don’t you recognize me?

  She doesn’t seem to, and asks, what do you mean when you say you’re a mystery?

  It’s all about the mystery, right?

  Traveling down this road you hope for some discovery.

  It starts with one lie–sometimes it’s you that lies to yourself–and it keeps going until the dead end of this night. It’s a double feature.

  Got to make this last.

  It’s going to be a long drive.

  Better get used to the mystery.

  Better start crying.

  Had enough exposition. It’s about time she starts noticing she’s in danger.

  Oh. You just missed the exit. . . is there another way?

  She squirms in her seat, worried about what this means.

  What are you talking about?

  There’s only the one planned stop, and it’s our final destination.

  Seems she’s the only one confused, the only one that hasn’t read the script.

  You should keep up to date with the news. It might have saved your life.

  It’s around now that she’ll start crying.

  She starts pleading, let me go.

  The bargaining doesn’t usually come until after anger. She’s switching the steps.

  She tries the door. It’s locked from the driver’s side.

  It’s going to be a long drive. Get comfortable.

  Since when has everything been about murder?

  Since it became marketable and entertaining for an audience, any audience.

  Go ahead. There’s some popcorn in the back seat.

  Might as well sit back and enjoy the ride.

  Give in. She’s going to give up soon enough.

  It’s time for anger and screams. Her screams startle the audience. Hurts the ears, adds urgency to the scene unfolding.

  Go ahead and scream.

  No one uses this interstate. This, an interstate without a number; an interstate abandoned by time. The only use of such an interstate is the mystery that drives up and down its entire expanse, leaving only to refuel.

  Screams turn to anguished blood curdling cries.

  The mystery slouches in its seat, one arm on the steering wheel, getting comfortable.

  This is getting good.

  Your ego is the only reason you are here.

  1.

  So, you know, given the way the world is, it’s not that difficult to find what you’re looking for. Keep searching and you’ll eventually find it, whatever it might be. Even if it’s just a picture online, you’ll find it. If there’s any demand, it will be captured. If this were two days, two weeks, two months ago, I wouldn’t be as optimistic.

  But that’s only because of what you might already know.

  Yes, I am talking about him.

  Victor Hent. The slicked back hair, the expensive suit, the deadly gaze, the general demeanor and confidence.

  Our beloved gentleman killer.

  I wake up and fall asleep to the same series of pictures.

  What am I picturing? Is it possible for me to capture what you demand to see?

  I’m picturing everything you’ll never get to see with your own two eyes.

  I’m picturing what he’ll leave behind after all is said and done.

  I’m picturing him driving across the country, picking up women with relative ease; all he needs to do is speak to them and they’ll be wanted.

  I’m picturing a woman walking across campus, a dreary bag of secrets weighing down her handbag. It’s what keeps her going, and these images don’t weigh that much. She can take them along too.

  I’m picturing a man and a woman comparing the angle and shape of their curves.

  I’m picturing the Gentleman Killer in bold, white capital letters on the six-o-clock news.

  I’m picturing a dinner party where the topic of conversation is whether or not the Gentleman Killer will seduce their wives.

  I’m picturing a rainy day like any other day, a woman dripping wet.

  I’m picturing the night I returned to my apartment, soaked, and there he was, turning one body into two. I’m picturing it split down the middle because it sounds so much better that way.

  I’m picturing what I said and what I didn’t say.

  I’m picturing his face when he realized I was serious, my offer, serious and true.

  I’m picturing our kiss.

  I’m picturing everything you can’t picture, and it makes it so much better knowing that it’s mine and mine alone.

  But see how I’m not really telling you the whole story, and I’m not going to, because leaving a bit of it to mystery keeps everyone guessing. It turns a person’s mind into a powerful weapon. Guess all you want, but you’re not going to figure it all out. And then you’re thinking maybe it’s impossible to figure out. Eventually you might give up, but the mystery never gives up on anyone. It’ll return as a passing thought, something that triggers during a cup of coffee, while riding the subway t
o work, or maybe when you’re people watching, the mystery will return. It’s a sitcom rerun that was never viewed in its entirety.

  Bits and pieces get pieced away, left on the cutting room floor.

  I’m picturing a dirty floor, scraps of skin and bone where there should only be books, magazines, and dirty laundry.

  I’m picturing your face right as you realize what he’s going to do to you.

  I’m picturing all the things I imagine people see right before their breath is no longer their breath. I’m picturing a world in recession, the world at present.

  I’m picturing my pet, by all accounts a gentleman and cultivated cultural icon, attaining the higher twenties.

  I met him like he meets all his ladies—under the intention of swooning and swaying them towards being free and willing, letting themselves be taken. To bed, not to death.

  Or so they hoped.

  But you see, I was different. I am different.

  I knew what he had planned. What I offered him no one else has ever offered. I offered him more than my body.

  More than my love. I offered him my home.

  My kindness, my secret, my safety.

  He would be mine and I would keep him to his craft.

  I’m going to help him increase that number.

  2.

  I went to class.

  Talked about current events and culture of fear.

  Good topics. Good mood today.

  More so because of what’s happening tonight.

  After class I attended a meeting with my thesis council.

  Topic was what I want to study. I think I know what I plan on studying.

  Everyone agrees I’m smart and a great observer. I know people.

  Not actual people, but just “people,” figuratively speaking.

  I’m great at profiling. Told them what I think I’m going to study.

  They are all in agreement.

  “Serial murder is quite popular.” Their words not mine.

  Seems like I agree with that statement.

  3.

 

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