I'm Obsessed With Serial Killers

After realising that I am inevitably alone in the world, my mind calmed. Relationships were out of the question, so I let my mind eat on this so then I no longer needed them. Or, at least, I fooled myself quite well into thinking that all I needed were my screaming victims in the alleyway.

I resolved that today was the day. In order to recover from Lily's recent and slightly awkward emotional outbreak, I needed to kill again. Lose myself in the flow of blood oozing from the dead corpse on the ground. My plan was in place, I just had to set up the cabin, grab my tools, take as many random precautions as I could think of, and learn the routine of the man who begs for spare change on the corner of the road near Ameoba Records downtown.
Walking down Haight Street without Lily was strange. I prayed I wasn't viewed as a stranger, some sort of lone wolf, or the reclusive killer that I really am. I guess we are hard to spot out here in the open, though, when you think about it. People got into Ted Bundy's car with him, even. They went to Jeffrey Dahmer's apartment, and countless people actually followed John Wayne Gacy home. And the worst part is all of this comforted me. Things would be fine, after all, there's no way I stood out.
I fixed my gaze on a nearby alley, picturing a murder scene as it unfolded in a dimly lit, nearly invisible area behind the dumpsters. Kill spot, check. I was nearly ready, I just had to find out where the man slept at night. There weren't an abundance of options for him. A bush here, a bench over there. Maybe he already slept in the alleyway. Wouldn't that be convenient? Squinting, I scanned the area for any indication of an old backpack, a torn blanket, a tattered pillow. Anything that would indicate a place a homeless person would call his "home."

Night came around and I had skipped dinner so that my bloodlust would feel even more satisfied after the kill. Dressed in tight black clothing from head to toe, I stalked the man into his corner of shrubbery. I wasn't sure at first about how I would go about moving him, but I resolved to gagging him with his hat and strangling him with my belt until he lost consciousness. It worked, he was out in no time!
Straining my muscles with the weight of his limp frame, I reached the kill site. Struggling with the movements, I set him up against the dumpster, sitting him up straight. Wiping my brow and taking a pausing breath, I told myself that tomorrow, acquiring a gym membership is crucial. Believing I saw the dirty eyelid of the otherwise defenceless man twitch, I took hold of my knife with both hands and swung it in a 180 degree motion, slicing the flesh along the man's neckline deep enough to slice the main artery and cause some splattering on the wall (and on my face).
Literally seeing red, I stumbled back and watched the fireworks. My breath was swept at the sight of the drops of crimson liquid spraying out of the wound, propelling themselves out of the cut and flying gracefully through the air, only to land on the cold surface that they would forever stain with their bloody touch. I was speechless, overtaken by its beauty.
The show was over in a minute or two, and the man bled out quickly. I took my knife, making another face on the side of the dumpster with the knife I used to kill the victim. Dot. Dot. Curve. :)

Transporting the dead corpse in this state seemed out of the question, but my ritual couldn't be jeopardized, not when it's still so young. I had to be more inventive than that. And, really, I was, almost as much as I am now. It just took me about 5 minutes to think was all.
I backed my car into the alley, farther and farther, until the back was lined up with the dumpster. I opened the trunk, lined with plastic as one of my random precautions I had taken earlier in the day. Heaving, I lifted the soaked red figure into the lined, empty cavity in back of my car. Close the trunk, lock it, drive off, back to the cabin.
Use the plastic to prevent a trail of blood, set the body in the centre of the cabin. Dismember the corpse. Feet. Hands. Knees. Elbows. Hips. Shoulders. Head. Bags, bag the parts separately. Throw the bags back into the trunk. Keep the biceps as food, the bones they are attached to as trophies. Dispose of the rest. Burn it, bury it under a grave, throw it in the water. Whatever needs to be done to be rid of the evidence. And then, finally, the deed is over and my ritual is complete. My bloodlust can rest in satisfaction.

This time, my growling stomach wouldn't let me forget the dinner I had skipped before the kill. I was convinced to eat part of the saved food, really savour the beauty of the night before retiring off to bed. I turned the stove on, sliced the meat, a clean, smooth shape like a slice of Bologna. Threw the tender meat in the pan and fried it as if it were bacon. Finally, the driving motive that drove me so far as to practice in the same art as the serial killers I so worshipped; Cannibalism. My hunger was truly solved, I had the most delicious meal and the best night sleep I'd felt for years.