Page 9

His screams are like music to my ears, driving me on to snip those sinful fingers off one at a time while I hum along. It’s a symphony of pain and terror from him, harmonized with my pleasure and gratuitous satisfaction. I wish I could record the sounds of the bones breaking and the shears clicking, plus his cries and my song, but evidence and all that. It would be putting myself at an unnecessary risk.

Blood droplets fall to the cement floor, and the occasional spurt squirts out onto my pant legs, painting my leathers in a crimson ink that disappears against the blackness of them. I may not be able to see the mess on me, but I can smell it. The copper and iron scents of it fill the room, filtering into my nose, making me hungry for more.

He's losing the will to fight. With each digit that falls to the ground and rolls away, his struggles increase, but only for a moment before he slumps in the chair again. His body goes slack between each cut, his held breath returning in quiet pants that blow the tears streaming down his face out at me like little drops of spring rain.

When he slumps, and his head falls to the side, his eyelids fluttering closed, I know he’s at the point that even if given the chance, he wouldn’t be able to run. The trauma is too much, the shock has settled in and taken over. He’s now just an unconscious lump that will be oh so easy to extinguish.

It's an immaculate sight, seeing him passed out, with the bloody stumps where his fingers were still twitching from the residual nerve impulses. With a satisfied growl, I grab the head rest of the chair, leaning over him, and rub my crotch on the destroyed hand that touched my girl.

Lily. Yes. My flower. This is what happens to anyone who touches you from here on out.

My cock thumps behind its leather and fleece confines, growing hard at the feeling of the warmth from his blood. I need to feel it more, to let the heat saturate my flesh. I yearn to be the final person he touches, just like my face was the last one he saw, and my scent was the last one he smelled. In death, I own him, just like everyone else who took the trip he’s taking tonight.

I’m fucked up, I know this, and I embrace it. I even love it. Where I went wrong in this life, I’m not sure. Maybe it was the abuse at the hand of my father, or witnessing him murder my mother, the only person who ever showed me affection. Maybe it was doing to him, the exact things he did to her, including forcing myself on him, raping him before I slit his throat and made him the first pile of bones in my garden. No matter what it was, I don’t care. I’m happy it made me who I am, and I sigh in the acceptance of my morbidity as I release my dick from my leather suit and slap it across the fingerless hand that dangles off the armrest of the chair.

“Mmmm. Yes.” I sigh, closing my eyes and feeling the sticky warmth spread across the head of my cock.

I’m not going to cum, I never do when I play with my victims. I prefer to wait until I’m alone with my thoughts and memories. When the body is still alive, it’s a breathing distraction. He’s too much of an annoying diversion from my concentration anyways. He needs to go.

“Alright, play time is over H.” I sigh to myself stuffing my red painted dick back into my sweatpants and zipping up the leathers. “Let’s finish this so we can go back to our flower.”

It’s anticlimactic as I draw the open blades of the gardening shears across his throat. The skin splits open into a crater with jagged edges from the unsmooth cut. A tidal wave of his blood rushes from it, and his body spasms, jerking in its seat, but his eyes don’t open, and his screams never return. He dies with the only sound being the gurgles of him choking on the red wave that tries to pour from his mouth.

“Such a shame.” I say, clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Oh well.”

Switching out my shears for a larger hacksaw, I go to work turning him from one large, awkward load to carry, into much smaller parts while Magnolia sits in the corner where she’s been the whole time, waiting patiently for her snack.

“Here ya go girl.” I say, sawing off his right arm at the elbow, shaking the forearm at her like a stick for her to play with. “You want this?”

The excited wagging of her little tail stump, and the happy tapping of her front feet are fucking adorable as she waits for me to chuck it to her. When she catches it, and starts gnawing on it like a prized possession, I go back to work, whistling a happy little tune that mom used to sing when I ate a fancy meal she had prepared for me.

~~~

The rain has started again, softening the ruts in the driveway. There’s barely a bounce to the truck as I turn off the path and into the West side of my property towards the pit that resides just beyond the gated gardens. The lawn is smooth and the grounds are well maintained back here. It’s a beautiful place with the stone walls, the labyrinth of bushes and trees, and my hidden little spot where I like to sit on beautiful summer nights, chatting with the ghosts that I’m sure haunt the space.

When I’m coming out here for enjoyment, I walk. It’s cleansing to take a stroll through the paths amongst the flowers and plants that hide the stench of decay with their sweet scents. The only time I bring the truck is when there’s a new addition, and the dogs know this. They follow behind the pickup, their little excited woofs filling the night air.

Parking next to the wooden structure that looks like an elaborate gazebo with its pitched roof over a large platform surrounded by a lattice type railing, I hop out of the truck, my boots squelching in the rain-soaked greenery. My pack of Dobermans surround me, their feet squishing on the ground, their happy whines and yaps bringing a smile to my face.

“Such good babies.” I say to them, taking a moment to pat each one of them on their hard heads between their cropped ears. “You know the drill.”

The rain pelts down on me as I open the truck and drag the first piece of the kid, who’s name I never even bothered to learn, out of the bed. Stomping up the wooden steps to the center of the platform, I drag the leg behind me, then chuck it down on the floor as I open the hatch built into it. It works like a compost heap inside. Mother nature breaks down everything except the bones in time, feeding all the creepy crawlies that reside underground, that is after the dogs get their pick.

Maximus, my head stud grabs the meaty part of the thigh and drags it down in to the pit with him, and two of my bitches follow him. They descend on it like they’re starving, even though they’re more than well fed. I guess it is true, once they get a taste of blood, they always crave it.

The rest of the pack waits patiently as I unload piece after piece, following them into the hole in the ground with each toss.

“Alright kids. Have at it.” I say, clapping my hands together to break free some of the excess tissue bits stuck to my gloves.

Sitting down on the edge of the railing, watching my girls and boys do their thing, I light a cigarette. The smoke swirls around me in a heavy cloud, held in place by the humidity around me from yet another spring storm. With a sigh, I close my eyes and inhale the menthol smoke, listening to the sounds of the feast, waiting for the satisfied emergence of them from the pit.

It doesn’t take long, only three cigarettes worth before Max and his ladies come out first, their faces covered in blood, their tongues licking their faces clean of the mess.

“All done.” I say, dropping off my perch and walking to the opened hatch.

The rest of them file out one at a time, and disappear into the rainy night, their black and brown bodies blending into the darkness like a fading apparition.

I’m tired as I drive back to the house, flicking beads of water off my leathers, and finally ripping off my mask that dangles from one ear.

My clothes fall into a squishy lump in the laundry hamper in the garage when I arrive back inside and strip naked, removing the stench of death, mud, and all the other nastiness that comes with murdering, dismembering, and disposing of someone who was unfortunate enough to unknowingly cross the path of me, H, the destroyer.

Magnolia trots behind me, through the door, and into the kitchen. Killing and chopping up a human is a lot of work, and now that it’s done the hunger pains working their way through my belly are becoming annoying. A quick meal, shared with her, like always, and a thorough shower, and I’m ready for bedtime. Not mine though, Lily’s.

“I’m coming baby.” I mumble as I push my bike out of the way in the garage so I can back my black Suburban out without hitting it. “I just had something to take care of.”

Sleep will be non-existent tonight, but seeing her, watching her sleep, and making sure she is safe is worth every minute of fatigue.