“I thought this was a two bedroom.”
I’m shrugging, “It was until money was tight enough to need a new roommate.” I can be so good, so very good, at lies.
It helps to get caught up in the lies yourself. Everything I say and do might as well be real because I’m indifferent to what they really mean.
What I say is gospel, how about that?
I’m facilitating the cram session.
The subject of modern crime ends up on the big three:
Fraud/robbery, serial/spree murder, and sex trafficking.
“Correlations between separate crimes and motive.”
I’m getting this all on camera, every single thing, and I’m aware of him watching us and I’m watching them as they start grappling with the prompt while the last to arrive finds us and is saying how he claims all motives originate from a desperation, a dire lacking.
One of them is saying desire is a big part of it.
Someone else is trying to explain how desire can be considered a form of lacking.
I’m getting this all on camera, so I let them all have a say.
I’m imagining him watching them, watching me, maybe turned on enough to pull down his pants and get a good stroke going.
I’m finding myself really into what’s going on, and I’m having trouble focusing on my own views of the prompt, so I’m letting them get it all out, finish what they have to say, and then I’m moving on, moving in closer on concepts having to do with social isolation and more about motives.
The prompts given to us by our professor will be potential exam questions and we’re all stressing each and every single one so that we not only understand what can and can’t be argued, but also what we’ll hopefully retain for approximately a day, long enough to release it all onto paper for one time and one time only.
He’s watching. . .
And now they’re talking about media icons and murder.
I’m saying something, elaborating upon a point previously brought up by one of the others. It has everything to do with the mystery and the image a mystery projects. Many of them are agreeing that serial and spree murders are prone to garnering media attention due to the hasty and often hopeless end-result of the crime scenes found.
Without extensive forensic science, the public is left to wonder.
If you leave the public to wonder, they’ll wither in the face of their own overactive and irrational imaginations and minds.
I’m finding myself wanting to look up at one of the cameras, but I don’t.
He’s watching and he’s hearing them now, talking about serial killers that were a) never caught or b) still active.
I’m hearing about the Zodiac. I’m hearing about Jack the Ripper. I’m hearing them yawn and grow bored, sipping their energy drinks, and I’m riffing off one of their comments about how tired and old the big-names are:
“Big name escapes are ancient history.”
Many of them are agreeing, “Is anachronistic.”
“Get with the times,” I’m saying.
And then it’s so magical because it happens while he’s watching from a room away.
One of them is gulping the energy drink and then saying, mid-burp, “You hear about the Gentleman Killer?”
And they are all remembering now, how he’s “big news” and “brand new.”
Something about fresh interest, and I’m nodding with the rest of them, and they are all fighting over who gets to use Gentleman Killer in their exam and who doesn’t. They’re talking about how they can’t all answer the prompt using the same example.
But then I’m saying, “Why not?”
And he’s watching.
And they are realizing that its valid. He’s valid.
“The Gentleman Killer has killed twenty-four women.”
“26,” I’m correcting them.
They are going to believe me because I’m the one in the class, every class, that doesn’t try very hard, and yet has some kind of natural link or facility for retaining all this morbid information and theory. I’m a natural observer and I’m best when I’m noting how people act and react, and I know more about the Gentleman Killer than any of them could.
I know that he’s watching.
I know that he’s mine.
And I know that tomorrow, my response to the prompt will land me a spot on the passing side and, even more than that, I’ll be highlighted as a bright and shining scholarly star.
My professor will want to talk to me. Everyone will want to befriend me.
I’m going to be valuable for what I know and what I hide.
I’ll take the mystery to my grave.
He’s watching them as they gush and gloat about their own theories about him, my beloved gentleman killer. They’re bringing up the theories that discuss the inherent fear and simultaneous interest these killers and murderers project. “There’s a serial killer next door,” and they’re using this example to explain how the proximity and believability of the danger increases as interest and closeness increases. At its utmost height, they’re potential victims, and yet they can’t resist the adventure and enticement that comes with trying to keep up and uncover the true identity and shape of the danger, the killer. And then they’re starting to scrutinize each other and any theory and idea that’s brought up, and I’m letting them go all-out, spreading lies, spreading thoughts about him that are simply not true.
He isn’t an old man. A pervert. A woman. A terrorist.
And no, he isn’t a media-created lie.
He exists, and he’s watching in the next room.
After they’ve gone, as oblivious leaving as they were coming in, he and I will have quite the laugh. We’ll laugh while we get naked, and then afterwards, we’ll plan ahead to tomorrow night, deciding what will be read about hours later online and in the morning paper.
And I’ll get a perfect score, accolades, while he’ll inch closer to 30.
30 women. And this, I’m finding myself saying quite often, “It’s only the beginning. By the time we’re really close that number will be doubled.”
His eyes would light up and I’d be pushing him into his room, telling him to get online, get on camera, and that I’m wanting him fully, in frame, ready and recording.
There’s no better way to know every little thing about another by seeing them naked and alone, with only the dark lights and threat of humiliation forming around them from the bleak corners of their room.
Him in his room, and me in mine—this is us, and we’re getting to know each other.
3.
What is this, what is that? Look into the camera. I can lust over nothing else.
Speak to me with every press of the key.
—He agrees.
Let me see you. Manipulate you, manipulate me. We cannot get any closer than the screens and the demands broadcast between camera and keyboard. I want your body next to me when I’m looking to fuck and not be found.
Find me online. Find me on camera. Type to me.
—He does.
Say everything that can’t leave your lips.
Bare text. Don’t let the bare text fool you. Bare text is like airbrushed nude pics where you’re not getting the full-effect. Let’s see those freckles. Let’s see those stretch marks. It’s far better to see in video than the bare text of any blog.
I’m what you call a purist. I want every ounce, every fold, every tuck.
Every fuck.
The need to feel something teases me with the thought that I can satisfy my urges.
But I can never have enough.
—And neither can he.
Move to minimize three windows while I enlarge one. I hesitate right after.
I feel my lips quiver. I see my hands shaking.
I look up at the camera, imagining that you’re as excited as me.
—He’s watching me.
I look down at myself. I am seated where he can see right through me.
I’ve shaved today just
for this. Call it show time. Call it seeing the real side of a person. Call it the daily grind. Call it loving yourself. Call it whatever you want to call it as long as you come when I say.
The real me, and not the one I let strangers see.
I’m probably classifiable an egomaniac, a battle-torn being.
I’m bitter and I’m bored.
I’m a city with a thousand faces, but I need to come before I can find the one I need, the one that fits me. Look at me. Don’t look at my fingers thrusting in and out.
Look at me.
—He looks.
They look at me and see only what’s on the surface.
You look at me and what do you see?
I know what’s coming and it’s me, and it’s them, and it never gets old.
The window bares all.
The camera captures parts of me—every moan, every misery, every desire. Yet it won’t ever capture all of me. I’m the deluge. I’m a girl with serious demands. I’m resourceful. I’ve built a business around the thought of glimpsing perfection, all feeling, all touch, all taste, all sensation, all at once.
Perfection is something you cannot pay for.
Perfection is something worth dying for.
Some windows are two-way. He watches me and I watch him.
He has no reason to hide from me. He must let me see him.
Let me see what I want to see.
Do what I say.
—He does what I say.
Dominate me. . .
Dominate me!
—He dominates me.
I want to look him in the eye right before we both climax.
And when we do, I’m the one ready again. He seems to slow down, tiring out, and look who’s on top, riding you limp, wanting more?
—He wants to please me.
How many people really want to be found?
1.
I’m here because he’s insatiable, which really means I’m searching not for someone, but for something, her, and she’s potentially anyone and everyone. The chances are good that anyone might fit into what she needs to be. Just like there might be a serial killer living next door, it means the chances are great, the greatest they’ve ever been, that anyone is everyone and everyone is simply a matter of who I’m choosing, labeling: “That’s her.”
I’m here looking to pick her up. Her—number twenty-eight.
We are continually being lost and found in the game we all play.
So when it’s all so exciting and hopelessly final, the serial killer next door may be knocking, showing its true self as your father, your best friend, your sister or brother. You’re ready to think about purpose and meaning. When you start letting those ideas roam free, it sounds something like trying to compare and contrast what “I am” compared to everyone else.
When a weapon is made murder weapon, and the location is made crime scene, the last thing that’s important is whether or not the victim was a good human being or not.
The media’s going to make the victim look as innocent as possible. No matter what the victim might have done, there’ll be a disconnection between reality and fiction. It doesn’t really mean that much to answer why. No matter how hard I try, I’m not going to be saying what you want to hear.
I don’t really know what you want and I don’t know the answer.
So, you see why I’d prefer not to talk. I keep things to myself most of the time.
But I end up getting texts from him and he’s telling me about how number twenty-seven couldn’t last that long and so maybe the one I find, the one that’ll be her, number twenty-eight, should be a little feistier, more aggressive, more willing to break free from us in the cold rainy night so that we could both chase her down like a good girl. After that we’d both see how long it’ll take to bleed her dry.
I’ve been to so many parties, and I’ve pretended to be all sorts of social people, but it’s never me and it’s never the “me” I want it to be. Yet here I am, once again, searching for him.
I’m never going to get used to all the waiting; waiting for the right people, the right crowd. I always feel off, almost anxious, pretending to look busy, staring into my phone. Rereading old texts make me feel even more like I’ve wasted my time. And I might start believing that I’m wasting my time, and I’m almost ready to start telling him that I’m not going to find her, but this is the first time, the very first time I’m helping him. I am going to find her, Miss Number 28. The twenty-seven that came before won’t compare to her.
Miss Number 28. I guarantee it.
She’ll change his life.
I’m waiting in someone else’s car, someone—one of the grad students who routinely wish it was I they could seduce—and he’s doing all the talking while I’m listening, most definitely waiting to get this over with.
I’m still not used to hearing the music and the party spillover in the parking lots. It’s always a surprise; I’ll always feel like the party’s trying to reach out and strangle me. But it’s alright because she’s here tonight. I know it.
“You look beautiful, Claire! You really need to stop worrying. Take a deep breath. You’ll be the prettiest one at the party.” That’s what my fellow grad student is saying. I’m apparently giving off vibes of anxiety and unease when, in fact, I’m simply uninterested with sights and sounds; I’m into the kind of atmosphere that’ll drop all attendees on their rightful heads, turning them into dumb drunks, free for the taking.
But this guy is thinking I’m with him and not my gentleman, my beloved and true gentleman, who wouldn’t have any qualms about removing this guy’s tongue just so that I’d never have to hear him ramble, which is what he always seems to do. I’m really wishing it’ll happen because he’s still going on and on.
The damn party hasn’t swelled enough yet to bother showing up. Everyone with self-respect is as late to the party as possible. Let the loners have first dibs, get drunker than us—quicker, faster—so that they might not find themselves in the same situation the following morning.
Take deep breaths. Take deep breaths. I’m checking and rechecking myself.
I’m calm. He’s the one that’s anxious, and he’s anxious because he’s trying to find me, trying to get close to me, and by close what else can it mean without making very little sense? I’m probably doing pretty well to keep things from crossing that invisible line separating, going too far, and not going far enough because he isn’t trying very hard. And maybe I’m not making much sense but, here’s to hoping, that when the entire scene is sculpted, you’ll see through it all to the seriousness of his desires and mine.
“No one’s here yet. I doubt they’ve even set up the blacklights yet.”
So I’m forced to hear the same thing repeated over and over again because he’s anxious and more than likely unable to calm himself.
But I’m thinking about having my beloved gentleman under me, right now, at all times, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine. . .
Look at this guy, not a single shred of confidence or danger in him, yet he’s trying to meet me halfway. He’s trying to find me. He’s incapable of laying a finger on anything, much less me, but that isn’t stopping him from trying to find me, trying to get lucky, matching massacres with my well-maintained body and mind.
I’m rambling.
I’m getting bored.
It’s good to have someone there that knows the signs. That’s what I am to him and he is to me. The structure is solid, more solid than I’m used to, and we’re poised to see the gentleman continue to find her over and over again. Gain ground until he knows the various tastes and tempers traceable when you take them out the right way. Her?
I see her before she even joins the party.
That’s her, I’m thinking. Miss lucky number twenty-eight. Hey miss?
I’m watching her, observing the way she walks, and this guy is saying to me, “I’ve seen her before. Do you know her?”
And I’m responding, “I know everyone
worth knowing.”
This guy, he’s still going, still rambling incoherently about who she might be but I’m already exiting the car, walking towards the source of the party. Maybe it’s a little too early, but I know what I want. I’ve found her and she’s going to be perfect all dressed up and docile.
The number twenty-eight looks perfect on you, miss.
This guy is going to follow me. I know he is. I’m not forcing him. In fact, I’m not saying anything to this guy, but he’s not about to let me go that easily. He wants to at least think he’s trying to figure me out, but all I’m thinking is, “Sir you have no idea.”
Can you tell that you’re going to end up lost in the party crowd?
He’s saying how great it’ll be, and he’s talking like he’s a connoisseur of socialite events—parties, junkets, benders, and other brags—but he’s a grad student in forensics, which means he spends his days and nights reading and applying theory, profiling, and trying to build the necessary skillset to be someone that’s a professional at being forgotten. It’s the nature of any forensic scientist to be influential but unmemorable. That way they’re never in danger and never anything more than a stimulus, an ingredient in the complex social stew of whatever-the-fuck and maybe-I-care.
It’s a fragile balance, if you dare.
“See? Now there’s the kind of sass and dry wit I know you have, Claire.”
But what I’m saying is the truth, and this guy hasn’t a clue who I really am.
“It is the truth. It’s you.”
And I’m wanting to say that you have no right to use my name.
I don’t, because I’m finding myself already at the door and I’m being judged by appearance and whether or not I am wearing a white shirt. I am. And I’m being let in even though I haven’t a clue of who these people are—just people, random without a single interesting prospect between the lot of them—but my Miss Number 28 isn’t too far away and I’m going to find her. I’m going to find her. We’ll be best of friends tonight and in the quiet and gentle morning drizzle outside, I’ll wake up to her anguished moans as he finds her too.
2.
My Pet Serial Killer Page 5