Page 55 of Obsession

Silence greets me, slithering along my exposed skin like a threat. I suppress a whimper. Dread clenches my heart in a vise, and a sudden gust of breeze sends a plastic bag dancing along the pavement before it gets caught in Mr. O’Harte’s evergreen shrub. I slowly walk backward, inching closer to the porch.

Someone was in my house.

Someone knows.

My fear finally wins out, and I dart back inside, bolting the door shut. I do the same to the back porch, too. Then I check all the windows, unable to relax until I’m confident that all doors and windows are firmly locked.

My dreams that night are haunted, and I toss and turn until my alarm clock finally startles me awake with its insistent blaring. I knock over an empty glass of water in my hunt for the offending item before slamming my hand down on top. I’m exhausted.

24

THE BRIDGE KILLER

Ipicked this walkway bridge in the neighboring town for the poor lighting. Most of the lampposts lining the sanded pathway don’t work; their bulbs are reduced to jagged pieces of glass. My guess is that bored kids have played target practice with rocks. It’s also freezing cold and icy. No one is likely to come for a stroll this late at night.

Either way, it’s the perfect place to prepare my latest art piece. She was a bitch, refusing to get into my car. That’s the hardest part of the hunt, convincing them that I don’t pose a threat. I’m good-looking, not like those old, balding men with beer guts, so it’s easy enough to flirt my way past their instincts. But this one. She was about to fucking bolt on me.

I had to wrestle her into the car, which isn’t ideal when you’re in a public place.

The only reason she didn’t run away like a scared rabbit the moment I parked was because of the Glock in my hand. I don’t ever use it to kill my victims. No one becomes a notorious killer and a household name by using a gun.

Guns are for passion killings. This isn’t it. I carefully plan my killings beforehand, picking out the optimum place todisplay their bodies and spending countless hours visualizing my masterpiece. How to best burn an image into people’s minds.

The planning is almost as enjoyable as the execution. I don’t care much for the killing itself, and I’m not a fucking rapist. But this part is my favorite; the beautiful silence, which settled after she sobbed and begged for the entire car ride before I finally choked her to death, squeezing the last wheezy breath from her bruised throat. Nothing makes me feel more alive than this moment as she stares up at me with empty, dead eyes.

The fear is still there, even in death.

And now I’m hard.

She looks so much likeherwith her brown hair and a pale complexion.

Annoyed with myself, I let her go and jump to my feet. Snow covers my knees, so I brush it off. My bag of tools is on the ground.

After retrieving what I need, I set to work, sawing the head off the body, every slide of the serrated blade cutting through flesh and bone. Slick blood coats my leather-gloved hands while I brush her hair away from her gaping neck. The last thing I want is to cut off the beautiful strands.

Strands that should smell of apple and vanilla but don’t.

Overhead, Orion’s Belt twinkles. It truly is an atmospheric night to paint the snow red.

The head finally severs, and I dig the rope out of my bag. It dawns on me as I pull the bloodied, matted strands of hair into a high ponytail that I should have done this before cutting off the head, because now it dangles, making my job twice as hard.

I grunt, dismayed at how tangled her hair is. This simply won’t do. I need her hair to be perfect, just like the rest of her is.

Placing the head down, carefully lining it back up with the body, I reach for my backpack and search through it until I find a fine-toothed comb.

The police will photograph my masterpiece. I can’t let her hair be anything less than perfect. Death is beautiful. And this woman, while attractive before, is nothing less than heavenly now.

I kneel over the body, pressing down on the face to stop the head from sliding in the bloodied snow while I comb the tangled hairs. It catches in the strands, and I grunt, growing increasingly annoyed. This was supposed to be easy.

Changing tactic, I pick up the head and brace it between my knees to keep it from slipping. With my tongue caught between my teeth in concentration, I form a high ponytail on top of her head. Starting at the hairline, I drag the comb through the strands to smooth out every bump and imperfection. I keep doing this until it’s completely smooth, like a perfect ballerina hairdo. And then I remove the hair tie from my wrist and tie the hair.

In fact, I picked her for her long brown hair so that I could set up the perfect stage for the world to see. This will catapult me to newer heights.

Tying the rope around her hair tie, close to the scalp, I’m careful to make sure her strands won’t slip out from gravity. Then I climb to my feet and walk back up the bank to the bridge, where I proceed to tie the rope to the railing.

I grab the handrail, disturbing the dusting of snow, and peer over the edge. The head dangles there, looking out over the dried-out river that’s now covered in a white blanket.

A slow smile curves my lips, the snow crunching beneath my boots.