Diary of a Madman
Alone In The Dark
He looked around him, at the photographs plastered to the wall. His eyes alighted on one of the first he had taken, a shot of her in the kitchen at home. She was standing over the oven, her hair pulled into its customary ponytail. There were a few wispy brown tendrils escaping, and they made a sort of halo in the light streaming through the sunroom door. She wore a black hooded sweater, and the Technicolor butterfly fluttering on the small of her back was playing peek-a-boo with the waistband of her low-rise jeans. He chuckled softly. Her parents still didn’t know that she’d gotten that one. The lion in his chest purred contentedly as his eyes skimmed over her curves, the swell of her hip and the dip of her waist. Beauty incarnate.
He sighed. Such a shame that he would have to hurt her.
But it was time. Only one question remained: how?
Shooting was too messy—fluids, skin, hair, blasted everywhere. He shuddered and mentally crossed the option off his list. It would never do. Besides, it was so impersonal, and he had to be close when he did it. He wanted to see the light leave her eyes, to smell her hair as she died in his arms. No. Shooting was not the way.
Hungrily, he sought out another picture. She was in the courtyard at school, with that insipid boyfriend of hers, the one that looked like he should have graduated three years before. She was gorgeous, wearing a crown of flowers that she had fashioned for herself as she lay sprawled in the grass, one manicured hand resting gently at the base of her throat.
Excitement overtook him as another way came to him: he could cut her throat. What a crude method, too! One nick of the carotid artery and there would be blood everywhere. A delighted shiver wrapped around his spine. It would flow over his hands, between his fingers…. But again, the mess would be a problem. And the wound would be so visible that there would be no open casket. He immediately dismissed the second idea. Definitely not—he would need to see the final product of his little project.
Another still-shot, and she was with that boy again. They were sitting in a little café together, both still clad in school uniform, drinking coffee and sharing cake. His eyes swept the picture, and the lion in his chest began to growl. The boy had his hand underneath the table, against her thigh, not caring who saw his vulgar display of affection. They were leaning over the table, whispering to each other, and there was a lovesick look in her eyes. He scowled, crushing the glass in his hand with a forceful squeeze. That boy was trouble; he’d damaged her mind with his vapid promises and empty lies. She was intoxicated—
His eyebrow lifted slightly. Poison. Now there was something: quick, quiet, clean, and if he gave it to her at the dinner, then he could be there for her as she took her last breath. He frowned. But they may not find it—those idiots at the FBI, the ones that had been watching over her for so long, thinking they were clever, that they were going to catch him… they might screw up and call it natural causes. He barked a laugh. They were just stupid enough to do it! Sadly, the third alternative was eliminated. They had to know it was him. They had to know that he had won.
Frustration gripped him and he yelled, loudly and incoherently, startling a bird that was perched on his windowsill. He was a genius! A mastermind! And he couldn’t think of the right way to kill one wicked, teasing little whore! He hurled a second glass at the wall and it shattered. The sound and spray of cold liquid on his skin brought him back down to Earth. He had to keep his cool, had to think rationally about this.
What was left to him? He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk, willing himself to concentrate. His gaze shifted to another picture, and the lion roared. She was radiant, in a cornflower bridesmaid’s dress, her hair curled into a braided coronet on top her head. She was carefree and fabulous, and that—that boy had no right to have his hands on her! His hands shook, rage bubbled acidly in his stomach, and his fingers curled, almost reflexively. He could all but feel the boy’s throat beneath his fingers, the windpipe collapsing beneath his thumbs, the sickening, thrilling crunch of cartilage—
A cold smile stretched his lips, cracking the chapped skin until blood beaded on his skin. He licked it away slowly, closing his eyes as the salt met the tip of his tongue. He’d found it. It was perfect— of course a little strength would be necessary, but that made no difference to him. And he’d hear it: that rattling, drawn out, final hiss of air as she gave in to him.
He clicked the mouse once and a blank screen appeared before him. The little black bar flashed at the top of the blank page.
He reached out a single gloved hand and deliberately depressed the keys.
Game Over, Angel.
He sighed. Such a shame that he would have to hurt her.
But it was time. Only one question remained: how?
Shooting was too messy—fluids, skin, hair, blasted everywhere. He shuddered and mentally crossed the option off his list. It would never do. Besides, it was so impersonal, and he had to be close when he did it. He wanted to see the light leave her eyes, to smell her hair as she died in his arms. No. Shooting was not the way.
Hungrily, he sought out another picture. She was in the courtyard at school, with that insipid boyfriend of hers, the one that looked like he should have graduated three years before. She was gorgeous, wearing a crown of flowers that she had fashioned for herself as she lay sprawled in the grass, one manicured hand resting gently at the base of her throat.
Excitement overtook him as another way came to him: he could cut her throat. What a crude method, too! One nick of the carotid artery and there would be blood everywhere. A delighted shiver wrapped around his spine. It would flow over his hands, between his fingers…. But again, the mess would be a problem. And the wound would be so visible that there would be no open casket. He immediately dismissed the second idea. Definitely not—he would need to see the final product of his little project.
Another still-shot, and she was with that boy again. They were sitting in a little café together, both still clad in school uniform, drinking coffee and sharing cake. His eyes swept the picture, and the lion in his chest began to growl. The boy had his hand underneath the table, against her thigh, not caring who saw his vulgar display of affection. They were leaning over the table, whispering to each other, and there was a lovesick look in her eyes. He scowled, crushing the glass in his hand with a forceful squeeze. That boy was trouble; he’d damaged her mind with his vapid promises and empty lies. She was intoxicated—
His eyebrow lifted slightly. Poison. Now there was something: quick, quiet, clean, and if he gave it to her at the dinner, then he could be there for her as she took her last breath. He frowned. But they may not find it—those idiots at the FBI, the ones that had been watching over her for so long, thinking they were clever, that they were going to catch him… they might screw up and call it natural causes. He barked a laugh. They were just stupid enough to do it! Sadly, the third alternative was eliminated. They had to know it was him. They had to know that he had won.
Frustration gripped him and he yelled, loudly and incoherently, startling a bird that was perched on his windowsill. He was a genius! A mastermind! And he couldn’t think of the right way to kill one wicked, teasing little whore! He hurled a second glass at the wall and it shattered. The sound and spray of cold liquid on his skin brought him back down to Earth. He had to keep his cool, had to think rationally about this.
What was left to him? He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk, willing himself to concentrate. His gaze shifted to another picture, and the lion roared. She was radiant, in a cornflower bridesmaid’s dress, her hair curled into a braided coronet on top her head. She was carefree and fabulous, and that—that boy had no right to have his hands on her! His hands shook, rage bubbled acidly in his stomach, and his fingers curled, almost reflexively. He could all but feel the boy’s throat beneath his fingers, the windpipe collapsing beneath his thumbs, the sickening, thrilling crunch of cartilage—
A cold smile stretched his lips, cracking the chapped skin until blood beaded on his skin. He licked it away slowly, closing his eyes as the salt met the tip of his tongue. He’d found it. It was perfect— of course a little strength would be necessary, but that made no difference to him. And he’d hear it: that rattling, drawn out, final hiss of air as she gave in to him.
He clicked the mouse once and a blank screen appeared before him. The little black bar flashed at the top of the blank page.
He reached out a single gloved hand and deliberately depressed the keys.
Game Over, Angel.