by Olivia White
I like thinking of myself as a serial killer.
I have an M.O. I have victims. I have a reputation in the press. I have cops hard on my trail, desperately trying to shut me down. I have my methods, I have precautions. I have a gun, a knife, a garrote wire. Sedatives, ether, a mask.
I'm the real deal. Kinda.
The first time I did it established my pattern. She was a girl living alone. She'd just moved into the apartment complex. I didn't live there, of course. Can't work too close to home. But I'd been watching her very closely. She had a boyfriend called Derek, parents who loved her very much, a younger brother called Johnny and even a pet cat.
It's okay, I didn't hurt the cat.
I broke into her apartment on a Friday evening. It was summer. I'd noticed she wasn't the kind of girl to go out partying. I liked that. I caught her when she was coming out the bathroom. Dressed in a tank top and sweat pants. Conservative. I jabbed her in the neck with my needle -I don't like using ether if I can help it- then tied her to a kitchen chair and waited.
The girl woke up. I knew she wanted to scream, but I'd gagged her. My gun has a silencer. I was pointing it at her.
"I'm going to take the gag off," I said, "but it's in your interests not to scream."
I could see in her eyes that she understood. I removed the gag. She didn't scream.
"What do you want?" she whispered between sobs.
"I'm going to force you to make a choice," I said.
The girl began to cry quietly. She said nothing else.
"Do you want to live or die?" I asked.
She looked at me, then, hope blossoming in her eyes. "I want to live."
I holstered my gun, stood up straight. She flinched.
"Right you are then," I told her. "I'll be on my way, I guess!"
As I reached her apartment door, I turned back.
"Don't worry, I'll call the police once I'm a fair distance away. You won't have to stay tied up for long. Well, see ya!"
And then I left.
That first time, my highest ranking was a page 8. A couple papers didn't even run the story. I wasn't surprised, nor was I disappointed. I didn't expect to be hailed as the next Berkowitz or Bundy, at least not right away.
It only took a couple more victims before the press started taking interest. I followed the exact same pattern. Pretty girls, living alone. I always went for them, still do. Just a thing, I guess. Live or die? Live. Leave. The press started calling me The Pacifist. It had a ring to it. I liked it. At least I finally had a nickname.
The fourth, fifth and sixth victims weren't noteworthy. They were for me, of course, I cherish each one. But I'd only be repeating the same story. The seventh, though, she was different. A redhead. Feisty, they say. Her name was Victoria. She didn't live alone, but her roommate was out of town for Thanksgiving. I broke in, sedated her, did the usual. When she came to, when I removed the gag, Victoria said nothing.
"I'm going to force you to make a choice," I said. I'd gone for the knife this time, and I swung it back and forth in front of her like a metronome. "Do you want to live or die?"
Victoria smirked at me. "Live. Obviously."
"Alright," I told her. "I'll be off then."
"And that's it, right?" Victoria said. "You fuck off into the night, you'll call the police a few blocks away, and what? What do you get out of this? Isn't this a little pathetic?"
I turned back. "What do you mean?"
"Well, come on," she said. "You're just going to walk away?"
"I don't have to," I said. "You chose 'live', though."
"And I stand by that," Victoria said hastily. "I'm just curious. You're kind of a celebrity now."
I blushed. It was true, I guess. I'd even sent a threatening letter to the police and newspapers telling them I'd never stop. Written it like a proper ransom note and everything.
"So what are you asking, exactly?"
"I don't know," Victoria said. "Don't you ever want to... go further, maybe?"
I laughed politely. "I don't think this is a conversation we should be having," I told her. "Besides, if you stay tied up too long you'll get poor circulation. It's already been longer than I'd have liked. Make sure you clench your hands a bit while you wait for the cops to show up."
Victoria seemed like she had nothing more to say, so I thanked her for her time and left. The next day, it surprised me that none of our conversation was in the paper. Victoria had kept it to herself. I made sure to send her a bunch of flowers at work a month later, with a card reading 'good choice - thank you' and a smiley face. I think she appreciated it. She never told the police about that either. She was nice. I liked Victoria.
The fifteenth victim was a girl called Kelly. She was the quiet type, worked as a secretary in a large firm in the city. She seemed intelligent. I'd observed her going to the library quite often. More on that later.
When Kelly opened her eyes, a look of recognition passed across her face. I smiled warmly at her.
"I'm going to force you to make a choice," I said, after removing the gag. She nodded along to my every word.
"Live or die."
For a moment, Kelly was silent. Her eyes shone with tears. She looked down at the floor, then back up at me.
"Die," she whispered. I could sense the regret in her voice.
It threw me completely. She must have seen the shocked look I gave.
"Sorry," she said quietly.
I put the gun down on the sideboard, thought for a moment, turned around, removed my mask, ran my hands through my hair. I hesitated a second, then turned back. My eyes met hers.
"Hey," I said, crouching down beside her. "Hey, come on, why do you feel that way?"
I put my hand on her shoulder. She didn't flinch. It was nice.
Kelly sniffed. "It doesn't matter, does it?" she said. "Just do it."
I squeezed her shoulder gently, then did something potentially very stupid. I untied her hands. Kelly brought them around to her front and rubbed her wrists.
"That rope kinda hurt," she said.
"Sorry," I told her, and I was. "Hey, listen, what's up? I can be a good shoulder to cry on, y'know."
Kelly looked at me, laughed sadly, then smiled. "This is ridiculous, isn't it? This, all this I mean."
I nodded. It was, I figured.
"Why don't we go make a cup of tea, sit down, then talk?"
We were on Kelly's couch, both of us clutching warm mugs. She took a sip, then said nothing.
"Is it financial troubles?" I asked her. "Something bad happen? Abusive partner?"
She winced at this last statement. "No, nothing like that. Please, don't feel sorry for me. It's pathetic. I know I'm pathetic, but I can't help it. I don't want to be here any more."
My shoulder brushed hers. "Try me," I said. "I'm quite understanding."
"It's a boy," Kelly said eventually. "He works in the library. He doesn't even know I'm alive. I'm fucking worthless. My boss doesn't appreciate me, the women at work gossip about me behind my back, and then when Ron won't even look at me, god... I'm sorry."
I thought about remarking on the fact I'd seen her going to the library often, but realized it would be inappropriate. I'd followed her inside though, and I thought I knew who this Ron was. Young guy, worked on the counter, seemed nice.
"Have you ever asked him out for a drink or anything?" I said.
Kelly looked horrified. "God, no. He'd just think I was some weird book geek. He's far too good for me."
"Sweetheart," I said, "he works in a library. He's not going to think you're a 'book geek', whatever that is."
"I can't ask him," Kelly said. "I get anxious, I'm scared. Like I said, pathetic. You must really hate me. I chose 'die'. I'm the first one, aren't I?"
"You're not pathetic," I told her. "I don't hate you. You are the first one though, yeah. Threw me a little bit, to be honest. But it's not pathetic. Everyone has their own reasons for feeling down."
"But there are far worse things that could be happening
to me," she said, looking at me pointedly. I shifted awkwardly.
"Yeah, well..." I trailed off. "Listen. Don't do anything silly, Kelly. Please. You're a beautiful, wonderful girl and you should ask Ron out. And if he says no then fuck it, his loss."
Kelly laughed quietly. "Yeah, I guess. Look, I'm really sorry."
"Nah, I am," I told her. "Are your wrists okay?"
"My wrists? Oh, ah, yeah. They're fine. I almost forgot about the whole tying up thing. So uh, why do you do this then? I can guess maybe, but..."
I held up a hand to silence her. "It's best I don't explain it," I said softly. "I'm going to go now, Kelly. Things will work out for you, I promise."
In my haste, I almost forgot the gun on the sideboard. Probably just as well I didn't. I thought Kelly had started to rationalize, but you could never be sure. I didn't want to leave a gun lying about, even if it wasn't loaded. I mean, why would it be?
I gave it a few weeks. Unsurprisingly, Kelly's story never made it to the papers. I didn't call the cops since I'd untied her, and left it up to her whether she did so herself. I can only assume she didn't. I kept an eye on her, though. I think she saw me a couple times. I caught her smiling in my general direction once. She didn't ask Ron out, though. But it wasn't hard for me to slip a note in one of the books she was returning, a note for Ron. I guess he called her. The next time I saw her at the library, her and Ron were laughing and joking like old friends. He had his hand on her shoulder. It reminded me of the night I didn't kill her.
I did a few more, after that. Kelly was the only one who ever chose 'die'. I was relieved. I'd been drained for days after that. My victims were growing increasingly chipper, almost as if they felt proud to be chosen. We shared a few light-hearted jokes. If it wasn't for me calling the police to release them, I don't think any of them would've reported me. I'm glad they did, though. I liked the stories in the paper, the tales of The Pacifist. I liked the news reports on the investigation, the fact that despite everything, they were still trying to catch me. My heart wasn't in the actual act any more though, and I knew then it was over.
On the day I knew I had to stop, I sent a letter to police and press telling them I'd never stop. I signed it with a kiss. It was a lie, and I don't like lying but I had to, really. I knew that in a month or so they'd realize it was over, and eventually they'd lose interest, but I wanted my legend to last as long as possible.
I like to think of myself as a serial killer. A nice, non-murderous serial killer, then laugh at the irony. And I did all this, like this, because it was kinda funny. And I needed to smile. But I did it for other reasons too. I needed to see other girls, girls like me, who make a choice and get to keep it. I needed to see the look on their face when they realized they weren't going to die, and understand what I was missing out on. It was never about jealousy; I'm happy for them, and I'm happy that they get to carry on and I get to carry on through them. I'm happy that while my own body has stripped the choice from me, there are others who get the choice, to laugh and love and dream and live.
VI - Bad Company