Red Ink
Indulging The Instinct
He didn't know what to do. His sullen thoughts became his reality, the way of living. The lowering outlines of killing he kept deep inside his mind. Now his bestial self let them seep through. No one noticed. No one heard the snow crackling underneath his feet. No one heard his heavily breathing or his fingers cracking from coldness. No one saw the snowflakes getting latched on to his black coat or the serrated knife in his icebound hand. No one.
He was afraid; not of getting caught but not succeeding. He had it in his mind; but that’s the only spot he had it in. That’s all he had. Thoughts and fantasies of - killing. Until now.
New Year’s reception at Times Square was the opportunity he tried to stifle from surfacing. He couldn’t. Fancy fireworks will light up the sky; Burgundy, Champagne and Chianti will delude people and make them easy targets. He just had to choose. 1 out of 1,700,000 people residing in Manhattan. One for now.
He didn’t dare. Despite the adrenaline rush, he just didn’t dare. He kept pacing, rubbing in the snow. Passing by the Chrysler Building, at Lexington Avenue and 42nd Street, his stern black eyes snared the prey - a tall figure with newspapers and a suitcase. A materialist focused on his career. Nothing else.
The adrenaline rush he stored up began to loose. He clasped the knife and whisked off to his first murder. His mind was blank, a white piece of paper awaiting to be written on. And it was. A murder of the 35 year old business man was the first letter inked in his mind. But he was cautious; he didn’t leave any traces. Only a man riddled with a knife. The snow took care of his footsteps; it kept falling down faster and faster, quickly filling up the gaps he left on the sidewalk. No one heard him. No one saw him or his smile of satisfaction. No one.
He couldn’t feel the blood on his hands; he couldn’t feel the precious red liquid substance, the soul of a man. Once you let it leak, once the red fluid starts abandoning your body, you’re endangered. An endangered species. He knows how long you will last, he chooses. From a palette that has no end. One man after another. Until he gets caught. If only he minds - Simon Skidmore.
His withdrawn self was the first journalist at the crime scene. The body was in the same position as he left it the night before. Just the tedious snow piled up; bloody snow. Two cops in NYPD jackets kept curious people at distance. But he wasn’t one of the people; he could enter the magical circuit where the body was. Where both of them were last night. He knew the cops; he writes about crime. Cops are his best friends - to find out how much they know, to find out what mistakes he has to evade. A perfect relationship. The murderer and the men in blue.
“Simon, there’s not much that I could tell you”, detective Dalporto started, peeking at Simon’s empty sheet of notebook.
“Erm..”, Simon mumbled staring at his first victim, lying motionless amidst the sidewalk.
He didn’t need or want Dalporto’s report. He knew what happened. From the beginning to the end. It was a special assignment – no research, no hang ups, no deadline. He had it all covered. In time.
“We’re waiting for the coroner to establish the time of death. I think it’d be a bit tacky ‘cause the guy is frozen. Like a popsicle.”
Simon enjoyed Dalporto’s descriptions. As if he admired the killer’s work. The popsicle only encouraged him to smear his hands with someone’s blood, to bathe his mind in the next victim’s red fluid.
“Do you know who the guy is, was? Underneath all the snow, he looks like a decent businessman”, Simon said scribbling in the notebook.
“I think you’ve been into this too much, Simon; yes, he was a businessman. Kenneth Hayes, 35.”
“And his name sounds like the name of someone who’s sitting in the office 24/7; once in a while he peeks out of the window to see which Armani jacket he needs and at the end of the day, he puts a bunch of paper in his suitcase and repeats those every single goddamn day”, Simon kept the conversation alive.
He needed to, he wanted to. He needed some more admiration to his work. Some more.
He was afraid; not of getting caught but not succeeding. He had it in his mind; but that’s the only spot he had it in. That’s all he had. Thoughts and fantasies of - killing. Until now.
New Year’s reception at Times Square was the opportunity he tried to stifle from surfacing. He couldn’t. Fancy fireworks will light up the sky; Burgundy, Champagne and Chianti will delude people and make them easy targets. He just had to choose. 1 out of 1,700,000 people residing in Manhattan. One for now.
He didn’t dare. Despite the adrenaline rush, he just didn’t dare. He kept pacing, rubbing in the snow. Passing by the Chrysler Building, at Lexington Avenue and 42nd Street, his stern black eyes snared the prey - a tall figure with newspapers and a suitcase. A materialist focused on his career. Nothing else.
The adrenaline rush he stored up began to loose. He clasped the knife and whisked off to his first murder. His mind was blank, a white piece of paper awaiting to be written on. And it was. A murder of the 35 year old business man was the first letter inked in his mind. But he was cautious; he didn’t leave any traces. Only a man riddled with a knife. The snow took care of his footsteps; it kept falling down faster and faster, quickly filling up the gaps he left on the sidewalk. No one heard him. No one saw him or his smile of satisfaction. No one.
He couldn’t feel the blood on his hands; he couldn’t feel the precious red liquid substance, the soul of a man. Once you let it leak, once the red fluid starts abandoning your body, you’re endangered. An endangered species. He knows how long you will last, he chooses. From a palette that has no end. One man after another. Until he gets caught. If only he minds - Simon Skidmore.
His withdrawn self was the first journalist at the crime scene. The body was in the same position as he left it the night before. Just the tedious snow piled up; bloody snow. Two cops in NYPD jackets kept curious people at distance. But he wasn’t one of the people; he could enter the magical circuit where the body was. Where both of them were last night. He knew the cops; he writes about crime. Cops are his best friends - to find out how much they know, to find out what mistakes he has to evade. A perfect relationship. The murderer and the men in blue.
“Simon, there’s not much that I could tell you”, detective Dalporto started, peeking at Simon’s empty sheet of notebook.
“Erm..”, Simon mumbled staring at his first victim, lying motionless amidst the sidewalk.
He didn’t need or want Dalporto’s report. He knew what happened. From the beginning to the end. It was a special assignment – no research, no hang ups, no deadline. He had it all covered. In time.
“We’re waiting for the coroner to establish the time of death. I think it’d be a bit tacky ‘cause the guy is frozen. Like a popsicle.”
Simon enjoyed Dalporto’s descriptions. As if he admired the killer’s work. The popsicle only encouraged him to smear his hands with someone’s blood, to bathe his mind in the next victim’s red fluid.
“Do you know who the guy is, was? Underneath all the snow, he looks like a decent businessman”, Simon said scribbling in the notebook.
“I think you’ve been into this too much, Simon; yes, he was a businessman. Kenneth Hayes, 35.”
“And his name sounds like the name of someone who’s sitting in the office 24/7; once in a while he peeks out of the window to see which Armani jacket he needs and at the end of the day, he puts a bunch of paper in his suitcase and repeats those every single goddamn day”, Simon kept the conversation alive.
He needed to, he wanted to. He needed some more admiration to his work. Some more.