Inside A Killer's Mind

The killer was watching like a hawk. His dark eyes flicked over the moving images before his eyes. No one could see him. He sat on the cold, wet bench, his fingers had clear droplets on them from skimming his hand over the damp railing. He stretched his hand to his mouth, licking the droplets with satisfaction. The children were playing with glee. A girl who was about eight, slid down the siren-red slide, squealing. He sat with anticipation as she moved in slow-motion. Her mousy-brown curls flew behind her, her coconut-brown eyes scanned the end of the slide, her blue and white water-proof coat flapped in the wind. A little boy ran crying to his mother, complaining about his brother. He was about four, he had startling white hair, pale milky skin and eyes the colour of icy glaciers. He could see right into the boys soul.

He itched at the thought of taking the soul away. That's what provoked him, having power over a human soul. Life was different from a soul, he knew. He had read too many murder books, and sneered in disgust when the killer had said he liked having power over life. Life was irrelevant. Life was something the soul provided. There can't be any life without a soul. The soul is the powerful mother, the life is the helpless child. In just a few seconds, he could end a life and snatch a soul. He breathed in the fresh winter air, trying to contain himself. He was sweating. This was too much for him.

It was like an owner waving a bone in front of a dog, out of the dog's reach. He had killed men, women and children before. He liked the men's sheepish surrender as he brushed the knife slowly along their neck, he liked the helpless pleads of women as his hands ringed over their fragile neck, he liked the muffled high-pitched screams of children as he clamped his dirty hands over their tiny mouths and noses. A thrill went up his spine as he thought of these things. That was why he stood and turned from the playground, the bone, the dog ignoring it's prize.

*

His binoculars were his best friend. He liked the feel of them, he liked the way they showed you things no human eye could see. His room was dark, but neat. Too neat. Next to his window, there was a table stand with folders of papers. Papers filled with people's lives. Most of these people had been terminated a long time ago. He loved the amazing thrill of stalking. He tried not to think of himself as a pervert. Pervert was an ugly word, used to describe low people. He was a god, above all human civilisation. What normal human could snatch a soul with their bare hands? A life, yes, but a soul was different. A soul was the high-pitched scream that escaped his victim's mouths, their flailing limbs, their coarse breaths.

A life, he thought, was a victim's crimson blood on the killer's clothes, the strands of hair the killers greedily stuffed in jars at home. Ha! That wasn't what was important. His fingers skimmed through the pages of his latest interest.

Name: Eve Forrest
Age: 28
Height: 5"8
Weight (est.): 63 kilos
Hair: Auburn Brown
Eyes: Red-Brown
Location: 17 Woodview, Charlesville, Gradystone.
Likes: Rain, clothes, birds, Internet
Dislikes: Sexist People (Feminist), loud noise, Alsatians, coffee, oranges.
Secrets (?): She cheats on her husband.She deserves to be punished.

He shivered. He loved stalking the victim down. He loved it when they held a secret. He had a clear smooth photograph of her in a poly pocket. Sleek, curly reddish-brown hair, high cheekbones, wide lips, a oddly angled fringe. He didn't know why, but he had an urge. He ran his index finger along her throat, leaving a slight smudge in the picture. The picture had been taken from his window.

He caught his breath as he saw her passing outside. He had collected enough information about her, so he jumped at the chance. He ran out into the rain, thunder rolling over his head.

"Oh God!" he cried, his voice croaking, "Please help me! My six year old son has fallen down the stairs, and my wife isn't home! Could you come in and make a 911 call while I hold him and nurse him as best I can? I'm begging you! He's out cold!"

He had always used this trick, a family-man always appealed to the gullible women.

"Oh, god, yes of course!" she didn't even take a proper look at him as she followed him into the house.

"Where is the poor thing?" he felt actual pain as he saw the innocence in her face, the stupid woman.

He did not say a word. He slowly turned around and sighed as he clicked the door shut. She did not breath. She was as still as a statue. In a flash, he was on her, muffling her frantic screams and whipping away her pepper spray as she spewed it in all directions.

"You're husband loves you." he whispered in an eerie calm as he snapped her neck like a tooth pick.

He splashed ice water on his face and neck, Eve Forrest's lifeless body only metres away from his feet. He dragged her body like a sack down to his basement. The stench was unbearable and would make any other human pass out, but he was a god. He was immune by now. In fact, he liked that smell. The smell of lost souls, that I took away. The dark basement was littered with decomposing bodies, all shapes and sizes. This was his collection. Each one was lined with the next, sitting up, all in rows and perpendicular lines. He did not just throw them in so they piled on top of each other. These things once held souls, they deserved to have respect.

He added his newest one to the bunch, and left the room without looking back. He sat on his pristine ocean-blue couch. The best part was that no one knew his sick secret. But of course, no one had power over him, for he was a god.