His Embellished Confession
His Embellished Confession
His deep blue SUV, armed with polished, monochrome windows, a myriad of copper wires and cables and sham, indelible glitter vanished from a stark parking lot. Its throbbing yet shrill noise muffled in the distance.
His cabaret mind, singing and jiving to a melody of murder, was fantasizing about stabbing her moist flesh; her scented and silky skin with a cold, steel serrated knife. He kept humming the squalid melody as the speedometer maniacally increased. Passing by the copse, absorbing the fresh country air, he took off his black Ray Ban shades, covertly glancing at the shovel, duct tape and rope sprawling on the back seat.
His sprightly yet vicious posture enjoyed the sun rays caressing his tanned face; the gust playing with his light brown, curly hair. The gush of thrill and his thriving criminal mind made him shiver. The shiver of self indulgence.
A sudden, squealing noise of stepping on the breaks in the middle of a valley, underneath an oak tree, impaired the peaceful countryside.
Stems of the corn, waving in the wind, glowing in the sun, hid the car, embracing it gently with their thriving leaves. The whistle of the wind through the field of corn overcame his brazen whistling.
Sporadically humming a Beach Boys song, he grabbed the shovel and frantically started digging. A convulsion of the mind unveiled his hunger for a murder. A dash of the sun rays, coming through the branches, made the sweat drops on his forehead look magnificent. Almost godly.
A high body temperature caused by the heat, made his skin tingle. Calloused palms and finger tips revealed his eagerness, his insatiable yearning for hurting the living. He was smirking, imagining her dead body riddled with knife. On every imagined stab, the shovel went deeper. And deeper; grazing his skin.
1,5 meters deep hole, hidden in the shade of the oak tree, made him gasp. A gasp of satisfaction. He paused a stopwatch; dangling from his wrist.
“1 hour, 46 minutes, 14 seconds,” he said, leaning on the tree behind him.
“It took me less than the last time,” he startled himself, rinsing his hands covered in dirt with bottled water.
“Ah, spick and span,” he said placing the shovel back on the seat, as he wept up perspire on his forehead.
After a glance at a portable mirror, he licked his finger tip and fixed his left eyebrow; dragging his finger along the curved line of hairs. As he finished admiring himself, he put his shades back on and started the car; taking a sip of natural carbonated mineral water.
He scurried into an empty house, girdled with trees and fences. Humming the same old melody, sprawling on the leather couch, he counted down the minutes, patiently waiting for his new victim, his new marionette - a district attorney. Sharona Mengatti.
He was sitting in the dark; caressing the serrated knife. Bursting with stamina after 50 push ups and an overuse of cologne, he smoothly put the white latex gloves on. A bottle of chloroform remained still on the cupboard until 10:00 PM; when Sharona came in. A few drops of liquid on white gauze, firmly pressed onto her mouth, left her unconscious, lying motionless on the linoleum floor.
Doodling on her stomach with a tip of the cold knife, leaving scantly visible shallow cuts, titillated him sexually. Thick layers of the duck tape wrapped around her wrists and ankles and a gag over her mouth, restrained Sharona from shouting and wiggling. The man enjoyed watching her twitch; licking her tears, leaving the gashes as she would suddenly try to flinch.
A decade old plastic surgeon experience wreathed in his sick mind, wrapped up the room as he began to stab her smooth, yet moist skin. He enjoyed seeing her suffer, stabbing her deep enough to fill her eyes with a fear of death; shallow enough to extend the pain, not letting her die instantly.
2 hours of self indulgence, surmounted with Sharona’s fear, twinge, tears and twitches, fulfilled his vindictive mind.
She died. Bled to death due to 21 stabs and gashes. He wrapped her in a shroud; and following the moonlight buried her distorted corpse underneath the oak tree. A flat blade of the shovel reflected the moon beams into his green eyes. A summer breeze helped him carve his and Sharona’s initials on the tree, by blowing the sweat drops off his face. The moon, shining from the summer sky brightened the wooden trunk; unveiling 15 carved hearts and different initials within.
“How do you know all of that?” A detective asked, gawping at a man that was sitting in a cold interrogation room.
“I killed her. Them.” The man retorted; fixing his left, shaggy eyebrow.
His cabaret mind, singing and jiving to a melody of murder, was fantasizing about stabbing her moist flesh; her scented and silky skin with a cold, steel serrated knife. He kept humming the squalid melody as the speedometer maniacally increased. Passing by the copse, absorbing the fresh country air, he took off his black Ray Ban shades, covertly glancing at the shovel, duct tape and rope sprawling on the back seat.
His sprightly yet vicious posture enjoyed the sun rays caressing his tanned face; the gust playing with his light brown, curly hair. The gush of thrill and his thriving criminal mind made him shiver. The shiver of self indulgence.
A sudden, squealing noise of stepping on the breaks in the middle of a valley, underneath an oak tree, impaired the peaceful countryside.
Stems of the corn, waving in the wind, glowing in the sun, hid the car, embracing it gently with their thriving leaves. The whistle of the wind through the field of corn overcame his brazen whistling.
Sporadically humming a Beach Boys song, he grabbed the shovel and frantically started digging. A convulsion of the mind unveiled his hunger for a murder. A dash of the sun rays, coming through the branches, made the sweat drops on his forehead look magnificent. Almost godly.
A high body temperature caused by the heat, made his skin tingle. Calloused palms and finger tips revealed his eagerness, his insatiable yearning for hurting the living. He was smirking, imagining her dead body riddled with knife. On every imagined stab, the shovel went deeper. And deeper; grazing his skin.
1,5 meters deep hole, hidden in the shade of the oak tree, made him gasp. A gasp of satisfaction. He paused a stopwatch; dangling from his wrist.
“1 hour, 46 minutes, 14 seconds,” he said, leaning on the tree behind him.
“It took me less than the last time,” he startled himself, rinsing his hands covered in dirt with bottled water.
“Ah, spick and span,” he said placing the shovel back on the seat, as he wept up perspire on his forehead.
After a glance at a portable mirror, he licked his finger tip and fixed his left eyebrow; dragging his finger along the curved line of hairs. As he finished admiring himself, he put his shades back on and started the car; taking a sip of natural carbonated mineral water.
He scurried into an empty house, girdled with trees and fences. Humming the same old melody, sprawling on the leather couch, he counted down the minutes, patiently waiting for his new victim, his new marionette - a district attorney. Sharona Mengatti.
He was sitting in the dark; caressing the serrated knife. Bursting with stamina after 50 push ups and an overuse of cologne, he smoothly put the white latex gloves on. A bottle of chloroform remained still on the cupboard until 10:00 PM; when Sharona came in. A few drops of liquid on white gauze, firmly pressed onto her mouth, left her unconscious, lying motionless on the linoleum floor.
Doodling on her stomach with a tip of the cold knife, leaving scantly visible shallow cuts, titillated him sexually. Thick layers of the duck tape wrapped around her wrists and ankles and a gag over her mouth, restrained Sharona from shouting and wiggling. The man enjoyed watching her twitch; licking her tears, leaving the gashes as she would suddenly try to flinch.
A decade old plastic surgeon experience wreathed in his sick mind, wrapped up the room as he began to stab her smooth, yet moist skin. He enjoyed seeing her suffer, stabbing her deep enough to fill her eyes with a fear of death; shallow enough to extend the pain, not letting her die instantly.
2 hours of self indulgence, surmounted with Sharona’s fear, twinge, tears and twitches, fulfilled his vindictive mind.
She died. Bled to death due to 21 stabs and gashes. He wrapped her in a shroud; and following the moonlight buried her distorted corpse underneath the oak tree. A flat blade of the shovel reflected the moon beams into his green eyes. A summer breeze helped him carve his and Sharona’s initials on the tree, by blowing the sweat drops off his face. The moon, shining from the summer sky brightened the wooden trunk; unveiling 15 carved hearts and different initials within.
“How do you know all of that?” A detective asked, gawping at a man that was sitting in a cold interrogation room.
“I killed her. Them.” The man retorted; fixing his left, shaggy eyebrow.