Page 29

Dax

“A lexa play Paula Abdul–Opposites Attract,” I shout. The hip beat of 80s music always lifts my soul.

Funny, isn’t it? People assume serial kills listen to black metal in dark basements, dressed like a rejected extra from The Crow. They picture big glasses, slick hair, and a style that is reminiscent of Napoleon Dynamite. If they only knew the truth. That a psycho isn’t born. No, he is brewed. One part high volume abuse. Two parts emotional neglect. A dash of narcissism. Mix well and voila…me.

I take pleasure in the God like feeling of having people beg for mercy. Or when people run away from me. It awakens something primal in me. Sometimes, I yell after them, “Why are you running?” Just to see what they will do.

Some may say, “But Dax you are the stable one. The good one.” Who told you that?

It’s all an illusion. A role I played to perfection. It could be my round glasses or my angelic looking blonde curls. Can I feel empathy? No. But I fake it. Do I love? I couldn’t tell you what that means. I appreciate the presence of my friends. That’s close enough right?

Remorse? Never met the bitch. And in my line of work, I don’t need to. They say serial killers have personality disorders. But I feel perfectly orderly. I don’t even think of myself as a murderer. I think of myself as …. human control .

In fact, I feel quiet in control. I really do love making my friends’ enemies squirm.

My boys. They understand I have needs. When Tarek asked me to care of two men for him, a pastor and a creep who tried to touch Penny as a child, I instantly came to his aid. Tarek is the nicest one in our group, dependable, loyal. I couldn’t have him do this dirty job. That’s where I come in.

Now two men lay flat strapped to a steel table. The steel blocks at the side of their faces, keeps their heads steady, and the eye speculum keeps their eyes wide open.

They both hurt women continuously. Now they are fussing trying to get out.

“Please let me go I will do anything,” the pastor pleads.

I lean over him “Then pray.”

He does. Loud and desperate. I ignore him.

The molester groans. His pudgy belly shudder with every breath “Why are you doing this?”

I calmy add sulfuric acid into the top glass beaker, then hydrogen peroxide. It bubbles instantly.

The pastor head begins to shake back and forth. “What is that?”

“Your death.” I open pipettes values. The piranha solution flows downward, a slow elegant drip of agony. The screams are immediate and glorious. The table rocks violently as they both try to get away. No one will ever feel their filthy touch again.

The acid hisses as it eats through flesh and into their eyes. The scent of metallic, rusted iron. Their screams bring me great joy.

Then my phone rings. I look down to see it’s my father. The men screams still surround me, with Paula still singing in the back and I refuse to move. I like my father to know what I am currently doing.

“Yes?” I answer.

“When you are done, come to my house,” he commands as he always does.

“It will be too late.” The pastor lets out a final gurgling cry.

“I don’t give a damn what time you will be boy. Be here.”

I sigh. His time will come soon. “Why do you need me?”

I hear a low chuckle over the phone. “Because, my boy, I have found you a wife.”

Paula Abdul voice rings out. “We come together cause opposites attract.”

THE END.