My Pet Serial Killer
Page 13
In the past, man and woman are together in bed; man and woman enjoying what they see, on screen with each other, chatting, and becoming one.
In the present, the apartment is draped in technology, every single item has its own protective plastic casing. The bed is rigged with bars on both sides so that between nightly tossing and turning, nocturnal fluctuations won’t end with an injured arm or leg.
There is nobody in the apartment.
Yet in the past someone is watching.
The audience gets a feel for both apartments.
The audience leans back and soaks it all in. Something dreadful is about to happen.
Action impending—you can see how it might all end. It’s pretty obvious, yet it’s still worth watching in hopes of seeing how the wall will be broken, figuratively speaking.
What is this? What is that?
It’s time to ask the audience. The audience builds a scene. Their scene. What they want to see, the sickening and somehow senseless things they might want to see.
What are we seeing?
Man and woman press their naked bodies against the shared wall.
They listen for movement but hear nothing coming from either side of the wall.
Voice-over:
Someone was recently victimized there. Please, a moment of silence.
Man and woman knock on the wall.
The wall between them is symbolic, defiantly important.
The wall will not yet fall. The wall will remain standing, pushing both man and woman away from each other. Man and woman whisper through the wall, calling for the same person.
The name sounds familiar.
Of course it does.
They call out for their own names. Man and woman, they whisper their names.
Victor. Claire.
They want to speak, but they haven’t been formally introduced.
There’s something missing between the both of them.
Man and woman, they are similar and yet opposite.
They listen to the sound of rainfall outside.
They want to be together. They hate being alone.
All they need to do is start over.
All they need to do is introduce themselves.
Hello, my name is. . .
A man.
Hello, my name is. . .
A woman.
The audience has voted and it seems they want pet and master, master and pet, man and woman, woman and man, to have that happy ending. And yet, they can’t stomach seeing the past erased. The audience isn’t satisfied with this scene.
The audience watches as the wall shakes and buckles in anger.
They can’t seem to agree.
But that’s still not enough. An agreement? The concept might be silly.
This is indeed silly. It’s odd. How much of this is really happening and how much of it is the product of human imagination?
Can there be any other possible ending to a story involving pet and master?
Second chances. Strip that scene and start over.
This isn’t commentary. This isn’t anything.
It’s an intermission.
The shifting of sore bodies in small theater seats.
The pensiveness of wanting something else without seeing everything change.
New but familiar. Familiar but foreign.
The mystery—it keeps them there.
We’re all being watched.
Students write “I’m going to die” on their shirts.
1.
I go to the weekly meeting.
On the way to and from the department building, I see students gathered at the center of campus, in protest.
The students wear white shirts, writing “I’m going to die” one shirt after the other.
When they’re done, they take their shirts off and put another one on.
Their bodies are their message.
What they wear and what they write is what they believe.
I don’t bother to watch long enough to figure out the cause.
What they’re protesting.
I have my own protest.
I preach my thesis and my data to the department chair.
He is confused but captivated. This has happened all before.
After a bit of discussion, I am given approval. One week extension.
Another week is all I need.
On the way back I ask one of the protesting students, “What is this all about?”
The student said, “We’re protesting the value of our lives.”
With death creeping up, students fight like they’re actually still alive.
No one tells them that they’re already dead.
Me? I’m not wasting my time.
2.
He’s walking into the apartment like he’s always done.
The first thing I say causes some surprise, “What is the value of your life?”
Every kill wipes away the previous kill, so he can’t say that the killing affords him some value. It isn’t the killing that holds value; it’s the killer and what it stands for.
The killer as an object.
The killer as a voice.
But he’s using his kill count, “I’ve got sixty-one under me and I’m still unharmed,” and I’m shaking my head and denying it.
I’m telling him why it doesn’t count.
He’s pretending to be confused. That’s bullshit. He knows exactly what I’m saying. He knows exactly what’s going on. Just like he knows exactly what he’s done. So pathetic, my pet, so very pathetic, and as a result I’m changing my mind.
I’m not going to tell him.
Instead, I’m going to move right on to begging. I’m going to make him beg for mercy.
He’ll beg for everything to be the same again.
Oh yes, he will.
He’s pacing up and down the hall while I sit casually at the kitchen table. He’s not realizing how bad off he really is. I’ve decided to let it all fall apart on its own.
He complains how I disappeared, saying that I left him vulnerable, at a loss, and that he could have easily been caught, “The entire thing we talked about, Gentleman’s legacy completely ruined and wasted.”
He doesn’t mention why I left. Maybe he doesn’t know why I left. He doesn’t know or care because to him it’s not a contract, an agreement; it’s something he’s already won.
Me.
And he thinks he’s won me rather than the other way around:
I won him.
There’s no winning, though, and I have to say that he’s not mine and I’m not his. Not this way. Not the way we’ve left ourselves. This is not what I’ve searched for and this is not what I’ve worked so hard to support.
He’s accusing me of what’s happened:
All the bodies unaccounted for.
All the kills lacking any real crime-spree, any motive, any meaning; he’s blaming me for his shameless pickups.
He’s even blaming me for the collapse of this once well-kept and pleasant apartment.
After he exhausts himself, he sits down, but his legs still twitch.
I don’t need to do anything.
He’s letting it all implode on himself.
Now he’s trying to confide in me.
A glance in my direction. I give him nothing.
Even after all this, he still doesn’t want to.
Doesn’t want to confess.
Doesn’t want to apologize.
I count the seconds.
He waits thirty-eight seconds before he breaks down, that familiar sobbing, and he’s saying he didn’t mean to do it. His excuse is desperation, about how he wasn’t sure I was alive and/or on his side. He’s rambling on and on about how he never doubted our agreement and never meant to break it. He thought it was already broken, the missing pieces being the impossibilities made possible (disappearing bodies, hidden voices, and something he calls the smell of seduction seeping through the apartment walls all day and night), and this wa
s all his way of getting back at what didn’t work and what didn’t seem to fit.
He wants to be pardoned.
He wants me to forgive him.
I accept his apology; or rather, I say that I do.
He’s telling me about all the things he will do to make it up for me:
—Clean the apartment until it looks new.
—Tell me about every single girl he’s picked up.
—Let me choose who’s next.
—He’ll erase the document on his computer. He’ll burn everything and erase everything until it’s no more.
He can’t come up with anything exact, but he says, falling to his knees, begging, “I’ll do anything, I’ll do anything!”
And that might be enough.
But the truth is, it’ll never be enough. He’s not my type.
I’ve seen his true self, the fight, and it’s little more than a single stab, a little bloodletting. I’m looking for someone better; I’m looking for someone that’ll show me how different and easy it is to be what I want them to be.
He begs and begs until he offers me enough to design a breakup, a perfect separation.
I tell him, “The first thing you can do is tell me about that night.”
“What night?”
“The night we first met.”
He’s looking at me, as if trying to figure out whether my request is sincere or not.
But it is, and he’s looking up at me and then back down at the ground.
He’s nervous.
And he should be.
This isn’t working.
We aren’t meant to be together.
What’s on your mind at this very moment?
1.
The day it stopped raining, I woke up early, way too early.
My pet, still in the cage I put him in, stared at me, wide-eyed and pathetic.
I pointed at him, shook my head.
No speaking.
We both knew. This was strange weather.
Not something that’s happened before.
The city had subterranean ducts and tunnels, an intricate patchwork of city planning to make sure the flooding never rose above ankle-deep.
What would happen to all that water in a rain-free day?
The chirping of birds. Where did they come from?
The sunlight is something unexpected.
I enjoyed the feeling.
That feeling of something new and unexpected.
I told my pet, “This is what I want.”
I let the mystery not make sense for as long as I could.
But in reality, it was only a Monday.
The rain started again while I was in the shower.
2.
He’s not resisting, not at all. He’s letting me take control of him.
My pet on loan, my pet with ulterior motives.
I tell him to fuck the mannequin I brought back from the clothing store while the one he picked up the night before, bound head to toe, suspended from the ceiling of the cage, watched.
And he did what I said.
To him the cameras were still rolling, but in reality I held onto a control device that turned them on and off at will. I recorded the best scenes—the scenes I had designed to pass before I put them into motion.
I’m a great observer. I know what it takes to see the scene through to its conclusion.
He says he’s at sixty-one, but I’m telling him, “You’re still at thirty-eight.”
He grits his teeth.
I stare down at his flaccid penis, still dripping of semen, and he’s following my gaze, eyes darting over to her, and he closes them, gasps, feels completely embarrassed.
“No one found them bound to their beds. Therefore, it’s cold murder. No creativity. You wasted for the sake of wasting.”
He agrees because he has to agree.
He’s my pet.
“Stand up.”
He’s standing up.
“Walk over to her.”
He’s walking over to her.
“Spread her legs.”
He’s spreading her legs.
The condition down there, after more than a day bound, is far from acceptable, but I force him to have a taste. He’s resisting, but only a little.
It’s enough of a reason for me to raise my voice, “Taste.”
I do this while reclined in a chair I’ve placed in the way of the front door, if only to casually remind him that he’ll never be able to leave.
“Really munch on it. Come on.”
Her moan is not one of pleasure.
He’s pulling back, gagging. He throws up a yellow stream.
“What does it taste like?”
He’s trying to speak but more vomit spills from his mouth.
“Calm down and wipe your mouth. Now, tell me?”
And he tells me what it tastes like.
He says it tastes like spoiled and sour flesh.
“Thank you.” I’m adding, “You could have told me before, you know. It didn’t have to come to this. You could have told me but, no, you had to tease me. You had to disappoint me.”
He’s sickened, retching, but manages to say he’s sorry.
I’m saying, “Oh, we’re not even close yet.”
He’s got so much more to do.
So much more to get on camera.
And he still thinks I might let him go.
3.
But I’m not going to let him go.
It’s obvious, right?
He’s still in the apartment. I told him to stay in the cage. “Stay with her.”
He’s in time-out; he believes he’s being punished and demeaned for his negligence.
My pet must learn.
My pet must learn if it wants to become a legacy.
Gentleman Killer has been off the media radar lately, hasn’t he?
It has, and it’s not my fault.
He must learn. He must learn that there’s nothing he can do to make this any better.
It was the intention of making me patsy that finally did it.
I’m next door and watching as his legs begin to buckle, the needle-prick of impending numbness setting in. He can’t sit down, leave the cage, or do anything until I return.
I placed the mannequin in his line-of-sight so that he has nothing else to look at but the very object that crystallized his shame.
Its vacant smile.
Its vigilance standing tall as he begins to lean on one leg and then the other; I’m seeing it on his face. The mannequin is really getting to him.
What’s he going to do? I’m hitting record as he shouts into the mannequin’s face and he’s now going against my command, kicking at the mannequin’s stomach.
He’s shouting incoherent lines. This is perfect footage.
Really, it’s great stuff.
He has an erection. He’s pouncing on the mannequin and fucking it for a second time.
When he’s done, he runs into the kitchen looking for something, but he doesn’t find it so he goes into my room, my room (a big no-no) and comes back with a sledgehammer.
He bashes the mannequin into pieces and screams in its cracked face.
He’s going back to her, bound and motionless.
By the way he reacts, it’s a good guess that she’s no longer proper.
The body is still warm.
He touches her neck, touches her there. He’s hard again. He’s fucking her, but I’m looking away in disgust. I’m not looking away because I’m disgusted with what he’s doing.
No, I’m not.
Rather, I’m shocked that he’d be so impulsive, such an amateur with a dead body.
It’s a rookie mistake. After he’s finished, I enjoy the look of sheer terror when he realizes what he has just done.
I’m still recording. I won’t bother to shut it off now.
He cuts her into pieces and then smaller pieces. It might just work except for the fact that he’s slowing down, cautious yet uncertain of what he
’s going to do.
He hasn’t a clue. I’ve been taking care of disposal all this time.
The killer has forgotten how to kill.
He’s beginning to sob again and he’s talking to himself, breathy shouts between pain-induced laughter:
“What have you done?”
Laughter. Why is he laughing?
“What have you done?”
I’m whispering my response, “What have you done?”
I consider returning to the apartment but I look outside.
“It’s raining. . .” When is it not?
I look at the time.
There’s a little bit of time before I have to be off. I could leave or edit.
I decide to work on editing the footage.
From the hole in the wall, I hear him talking to himself.
What happens when a killer is burnt-out?
This is what I’m trying to study.
4.
This no longer directly involves you. The longer you are here, the more you are in danger.
Screams and shout—the man in tears turns the doorknob but the door remains shut.
There are voices drowning out every other sound.
The audience hears the voices running together as intended. The contradictory nature of each line makes it seem like there’s really only one voice.
It sounds like the woman’s voice.
Get it? Get it? Of course the audience gets it.
It’s the characters that don’t. Not yet.
This leaves only the woman and her needs.
Her needs battled out via internal dialogue:
They can’t see you.
I know they can’t see me.
Doesn’t that frighten you?
No, I think nothing of it.
Well you should. There’s a reason it always rains.
I don’t know.
The rain washes away the confusion.
It leaves only the mystery without its various solutions.
I know that by your bedside, you used to think you were safe.
I know that this all revolves around you.
What revolves—around who?
Around you.
People gravitate to you.
I don’t gravitate towards them; they gravitate towards me.
What are you, the serial killer’s muse?