When You Wake up and Scream
Chapter Three.
Conán shut his door behind him and kicked his shoes off, leaving them on the plastic bag by the door. He then hurried through into the bathroom and pulled the bloody gloves off, leaving them in the sink and washing the excess blood off his hands. He quickly pulled his clothes off and left them on top of a bin liner so any blood on them wouldn't touch the floor, and then he quickly showered, making sure that any incriminating evidence – blood, clothes fibres, hair – had been washed off him.
When he had got changed he expertly pulled the sides of the bin liner up around the clothes, so that they were safely inside it. He would have to take it out one day and burn the clothes - this was the only way to ensure that he would be safe from evidence. He always made sure he wore his old clothes when he went out on a murder – he never knew how he was going to kill his victim until he found them. Every so often, Conán would favour the messy way, such as tonight. He had killed two others before, but both he had strangled. Conán didn't mind how he killed someone, but strangulation was definitely favourable when he didn't want all of the cleaning up to do. However, the dream about his witch of a mother had annoyed him, and he had wanted to be a bit more adventurous.
A smile passed across Conán's face as he pictured the faces of the people dealing with the body. It was certainly going to be a gruesome discovery, and he wished that he could have seen the reactions. However, as he had fled from the crime scene, he had picked up sounds in the distance that told him that the body had already been discovered, and that had probably been the only thing that had saved the girl's life.
He wondered if the girl who had seen him suspected anything. No doubt the police would have stopped her, and questioned her. She was near to the scene of the murder. Conán wished that the body hadn't been found so quickly. He had only killed a girl once before, and he liked their helplessness. It made him feel more powerful, a feeling that his mother had relished when she had frequently made his life a living hell.
Conán went into his bedroom and paused at the mirror. His own dark eyes glowered out at him. He was glad that he took after his father. He had never met his father, but his mother told him that they were the double of one another. Conán knew that he could never look at himself if he looked like his mother. Too often he had looked into her dull, grey eyes, wondering if they were going to be the last thing that he ever saw. He knew that his mother had despised him, and as he got older he had always yelled at her to answer one question: if she hated him so much, why was she keeping him?
He never did get an answer from her. Perhaps she was scared of people finding out the truth about her son? About how she beat him and tormented him? Perhaps it was the cheques coming in that never got spent on the child, but instead went towards booze and drugs? There was one thing that Conán was sure didn't keep him there, and that was love.
How he hated her! How he loathed and detested her with every single ounce of his being! He thought that when the bitch died he would have some peace at last, but that was not to be the case. She had even robbed him of that! All his life, ever since he could remember, he had dreamed of killing his mother. He knew how awful and wrong that sounded, but after the Hell she had put him through, the torture and torment, Conán didn't care. He recalled lying in the bathtub, which was where he had always been made to sleep, at age four, and closing his eyes and visualising himself throttling his mother. The only thing that had stopped him through the years was the simple fact that he would surely be caught. The police would have found the body and the boy, and it wouldn't take them long to put two and two together. No, Conán had waited, bided his time. He had run away at age sixteen and never been in contact with her since. He had wanted to leave it for a few years, knowing that she wouldn't have reported his disappearance to the authorities. She would have been over the moon that she didn't have the brat to feed any more, and she so often told him when she screamed at him to go and kill himself. Therefore, his existence would have been unknown to the authorities – the Gardai would have never heard his name before. He had planned to wait for three or four years until all trace of his existence had gone, and then go back to the squalid little house in which she lived and kill her, just like he had always pictured.
This thought had kept him alive over the years – the thought of the expression on her face when she realised that her adult child had finally come back for revenge, as she realised that now she didn’t have the upper hand and that soon she would be dead at her only child's hand.
But she had even ripped this thread of hope from Conán. Just as he was starting to think things through and really get ready to go through with it, the old cow had been found dead in her home from a drugs overdose. Heroin – she had been addicted to the stuff since Conán had been in his early teens. Conán had been furious – he felt as if he'd been robbed, and he knew that it would have been just like the old hag to do that on purpose just to spite him. Logic told him this was untrue – she hadn't seen him for four years, and either believed or hoped him to be dead, sucked into the underground street life and died of alcoholism or drug abuse or a street fight or something, anything, she wouldn't have cared.
But no, Conán always harboured resentment for his mother's lucky escape. He had seen her in a drug-induced stupor before. When she died, she would have fallen unconscious and died in a period of coma. She wouldn't have suffered, she wouldn't have known anything about it, and this thought made Conán sick to his stomach. He wanted her to suffer! He had wanted to make her feel the fear and pain and humiliation that he had been forced to endure every day for sixteen years! She had never loved him – Conán's earliest memory was of standing in his cot crying for her and her never coming to him. If she did it was to hit him and threaten him to be quiet. Conán had quickly learnt to obey. The standard punishment for shrieking through the night was for her to come in and hold a pillow over his head until he thought he would suffocate. The dark and stuffy feeling of the pillow over his face had traumatised Conán for life, resulting in severe claustrophobia, which still haunted him to this very day. Even now, if he awoke in a tangle of blankets, he would go into a blind panic.
Conán let out what almost sounded like a low growl as he glared at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were dull and dark, with a slight glint of something not quite natural in them. He liked the thought of his eyes being the last thing some people had seen before they had died. It made him feel warm inside – almost filling the empty part of him that had been created when his mother had escaped him.
Conán lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, not getting under the covers for fear of waking up tangled again. He was warm enough anyway, and after half an hour of laying there, he began to fall asleep, thinking happily of what had occurred that night, and also of the murders before. Especially the girl.
When he had got changed he expertly pulled the sides of the bin liner up around the clothes, so that they were safely inside it. He would have to take it out one day and burn the clothes - this was the only way to ensure that he would be safe from evidence. He always made sure he wore his old clothes when he went out on a murder – he never knew how he was going to kill his victim until he found them. Every so often, Conán would favour the messy way, such as tonight. He had killed two others before, but both he had strangled. Conán didn't mind how he killed someone, but strangulation was definitely favourable when he didn't want all of the cleaning up to do. However, the dream about his witch of a mother had annoyed him, and he had wanted to be a bit more adventurous.
A smile passed across Conán's face as he pictured the faces of the people dealing with the body. It was certainly going to be a gruesome discovery, and he wished that he could have seen the reactions. However, as he had fled from the crime scene, he had picked up sounds in the distance that told him that the body had already been discovered, and that had probably been the only thing that had saved the girl's life.
He wondered if the girl who had seen him suspected anything. No doubt the police would have stopped her, and questioned her. She was near to the scene of the murder. Conán wished that the body hadn't been found so quickly. He had only killed a girl once before, and he liked their helplessness. It made him feel more powerful, a feeling that his mother had relished when she had frequently made his life a living hell.
Conán went into his bedroom and paused at the mirror. His own dark eyes glowered out at him. He was glad that he took after his father. He had never met his father, but his mother told him that they were the double of one another. Conán knew that he could never look at himself if he looked like his mother. Too often he had looked into her dull, grey eyes, wondering if they were going to be the last thing that he ever saw. He knew that his mother had despised him, and as he got older he had always yelled at her to answer one question: if she hated him so much, why was she keeping him?
He never did get an answer from her. Perhaps she was scared of people finding out the truth about her son? About how she beat him and tormented him? Perhaps it was the cheques coming in that never got spent on the child, but instead went towards booze and drugs? There was one thing that Conán was sure didn't keep him there, and that was love.
How he hated her! How he loathed and detested her with every single ounce of his being! He thought that when the bitch died he would have some peace at last, but that was not to be the case. She had even robbed him of that! All his life, ever since he could remember, he had dreamed of killing his mother. He knew how awful and wrong that sounded, but after the Hell she had put him through, the torture and torment, Conán didn't care. He recalled lying in the bathtub, which was where he had always been made to sleep, at age four, and closing his eyes and visualising himself throttling his mother. The only thing that had stopped him through the years was the simple fact that he would surely be caught. The police would have found the body and the boy, and it wouldn't take them long to put two and two together. No, Conán had waited, bided his time. He had run away at age sixteen and never been in contact with her since. He had wanted to leave it for a few years, knowing that she wouldn't have reported his disappearance to the authorities. She would have been over the moon that she didn't have the brat to feed any more, and she so often told him when she screamed at him to go and kill himself. Therefore, his existence would have been unknown to the authorities – the Gardai would have never heard his name before. He had planned to wait for three or four years until all trace of his existence had gone, and then go back to the squalid little house in which she lived and kill her, just like he had always pictured.
This thought had kept him alive over the years – the thought of the expression on her face when she realised that her adult child had finally come back for revenge, as she realised that now she didn’t have the upper hand and that soon she would be dead at her only child's hand.
But she had even ripped this thread of hope from Conán. Just as he was starting to think things through and really get ready to go through with it, the old cow had been found dead in her home from a drugs overdose. Heroin – she had been addicted to the stuff since Conán had been in his early teens. Conán had been furious – he felt as if he'd been robbed, and he knew that it would have been just like the old hag to do that on purpose just to spite him. Logic told him this was untrue – she hadn't seen him for four years, and either believed or hoped him to be dead, sucked into the underground street life and died of alcoholism or drug abuse or a street fight or something, anything, she wouldn't have cared.
But no, Conán always harboured resentment for his mother's lucky escape. He had seen her in a drug-induced stupor before. When she died, she would have fallen unconscious and died in a period of coma. She wouldn't have suffered, she wouldn't have known anything about it, and this thought made Conán sick to his stomach. He wanted her to suffer! He had wanted to make her feel the fear and pain and humiliation that he had been forced to endure every day for sixteen years! She had never loved him – Conán's earliest memory was of standing in his cot crying for her and her never coming to him. If she did it was to hit him and threaten him to be quiet. Conán had quickly learnt to obey. The standard punishment for shrieking through the night was for her to come in and hold a pillow over his head until he thought he would suffocate. The dark and stuffy feeling of the pillow over his face had traumatised Conán for life, resulting in severe claustrophobia, which still haunted him to this very day. Even now, if he awoke in a tangle of blankets, he would go into a blind panic.
Conán let out what almost sounded like a low growl as he glared at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were dull and dark, with a slight glint of something not quite natural in them. He liked the thought of his eyes being the last thing some people had seen before they had died. It made him feel warm inside – almost filling the empty part of him that had been created when his mother had escaped him.
Conán lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, not getting under the covers for fear of waking up tangled again. He was warm enough anyway, and after half an hour of laying there, he began to fall asleep, thinking happily of what had occurred that night, and also of the murders before. Especially the girl.