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Not A Serial Killer

Hypothetical Question: If a time traveller warns you not to do something, do you listen or do it anyway out of spite?

Carina

I stare down at the crossed off names from my list, a dangerous kind of satisfaction seeping into my bones.

Nothing has ever felt as good as getting justice for the version of me they destroyed. The me I will never be again.

Perhaps I should be worried. Worried that I’m dealing with this all too well. The bloodshed that is. But how can it be wrong when it feels so right?

Thinking about it has my mind drifting to Nate—to the way he took me while I was still covered in Robert’s blood.

It shouldn’t have been so hot. It shouldn’t have turned me on.

But it did.

I want to do it again.

Crave it.

I head upstairs to shower and get ready for my day.

My mind is still on Nate as the warm water cascades over my body. The way he possessed me, consumed me.

As if it has a mind of its own my hand starts to run down my body, cupping my breast so I can tweak my nipple between my fingers. My eyes fall shut and my head falls back against the tiles as I picture Nate’s hands on my body. It’s his fingers twisting and pulling at my hard bud. It’s his hand that’s travelling further down, until it reaches my core. Slipping his fingers through slickness, circling my clit and pushing a finger into my aching channel. My breath hitches. His fingers pick up pace, pushing in and out of my pussy until I’m a quivering mess.

I’m no longer in the shower, we’re in his murder room. There’s a man tied to the chair in the centre.

“Eyes on me, Princess,” Nate growls in my ear as he brings me closer to the edge.

A strangled moan leaves my lips as I come. My breath comes out in sharp inhalations of ragged air.

My eyelids flutter open and the illusion fades.

What the fuck was that?

I turn off the shower, stepping out to wrap a towel around my body.

My hands tremble slightly. I grip the edge of the sink, looking at my blurry reflection in the steamed-up mirror.

Have I truly lost any semblance of sanity? Of self control?

I wait until my heart rate settles before leaving the bathroom.

My hair is sopping wet, so I dry it before scanning my wardrobe.

Slipping on a pink hoodie with the slogan ‘Not a Serial Killer’— a recent present to myself—and pairing it with some black jeans and my hot pink trainers, I’m ready to go.

Since Nate is on planning duty for my next hit—something I wasn’t sure about to begin with but really appreciating right now—I’m going to spend the day doing normal, mundane things.

Starting with going to Starbucks.

By the time I get there it’s late morning and the line is a mile long.

I join the back of the queue, shifting from foot to foot when a hot breath ghosts over my skin.

“Hi, Princess.”

I spin around, finding Nate, and throw my arms around his shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” I pull back. “Are you stalking me?” I tease, only half joking.

“I did say you’d never be rid of me.” He shrugs casually like he didn’t just confess to actual stalking.

Why am I surprised?

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Nate asks, taking in my jumper, his eyes lit up with amusement.

The line moves so I shuffle forward before answer. “I like the irony.”

He barks out a laugh. “Can you get me one?”

I raise an incredulous eyebrow. “In pink?”

“Are there other colours?”

My own laugh bursts free. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

By the time I have my hot chocolate in hand—yes, I hate coffee, no don’t sue me—I’m not ready to head home so the two of us grab a table. It’s one that lets us sit side by side, so, of course, we do that.

We talk for a while. I tell him a little about some of my childhood hobbies. Things that may seem trivial to most but are so far removed from the woman I am now. He doesn’t push me to open up further than I’m comfortable with, he just listens.

“I loved painting,” I tell him. “Abstract art mostly. I think because I wasn’t very good at it. I would tell people it was abstract, so they didn’t think it was awful.”

What I don't tell him is that my paintings would usually end up torn up by my father when I'd proudly present them to him.

His eyes crinkle when he laughs. “And look at you now,” he winks at me knowingly, “still an artist.”

My lips tug up into a smile. “Just a different kind of paint.”

His grin lights up his entire face. “You just get me.”

Nate nudges my shoulder. “What’s your favourite food?”

“That’s a hard question.” I tap my chin in thought. “I don’t know that I could pick just one thing. I love a Chinese, but I’m also a sucker for Italian—you know, since I lived there—”

“Wait,” he interjects, “you lived in Italy?”

I nod. “For eight years.”

He’s silent for a moment. “Why did you move back?”

I just shrug. “It was time to come home.”

There are silent questions in his eyes, ones I’m not ready to answer yet. Soon though, maybe.

“Okay, so you like Chinese and Italian food. What about snacks?”

“What’s your favourite snack?” I deflect.

“Alright, don’t judge me.” He pauses dramatically as if his next words will be some amazing revelation. “I really love gummy worms.”

I snort. “Gummy worms?”

“I said don’t judge me!”

“I hope they’re at least the fizzy kind.” I nudge his side playfully and he wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling my closer.

“Obviously they’re the fizzy kind. What do you take me for, Princess?” He clutches his chest in mock outrage.

I giggle, the sound so foreign I almost don’t recognise it.

“Now… don’t think I haven’t noticed you haven’t answer yet.”

I burrow my face into his side then twist my neck to peer up at him. “I’m obsessed with crisps.”

“Crisps?”

“Yep. I once ate two tubes of pringles within ten minutes.”

He pulls back to look at me. “Ten minutes? That’s impressive.”

My smile is smug. “Thank you.”

Nate gets up to buy us some food, then comes back a few minutes later with ham and cheese toasties and a new hot chocolate for me.

We settle back into a comfortable rhythm, finding out new things about each other. We don’t discuss murder, or my list, and it feels oddly nice. Just to exist together. Like we’re a normal couple.

Couple?

Is that what we are?

He did say I was his.

Strangely, the idea doesn't scare me. In fact, it feels quite good. It feels right.

By the time we’re ready to go the sky has just begun to darken, the afternoon giving way to the evening, and the air has cooled—the day somehow disappeared without me realising. I shiver slightly as we walk hand-in-hand through the city streets.

Nate shrugs off his jacket, draping it over my shoulders.

I beam up at him.

He takes my hand again and starts pulling me in the direction of my house.

"How do you know where I live?" I ask, frowning at him.

He flashes me a wolfish grin, lifting an eyebrow as if to say, "Do you really have to ask?"

I sigh, my suspicions confirmed. "You're right. That was a stupid question."

We continue walking until we’re outside my house.

“You know,” I say, not yet ready to go inside, “you’re not what I was expecting from a serial killer.”

“What were you expecting?” His voice is low, and his gaze never wavers from my lips.

“I don’t know,” I murmur, the air suddenly feeling ten degrees hotter. “Less…normal?”

He barks out a laugh, the spell broken. “Normal? You think I’m normal?”

I roll my eyes, stepping closer to him. “Okay. Not normal. But…you’re nice.” I lean up to kiss his jaw. “Sweet.” Another kiss. “Funny.” My lips find his briefly before I pull away. "’It’s disarming.”

He wraps his arms around my waist, holding me close as his mouth closes over mine.

“You’re a serial killer too now, Princess. And you’re all those things.”

His words shock me. Because he’s right. I am a killer. I’ve killed multiple people. And I feel no hint of remorse. Not flicker of guilt for the lives I’ve taken.

If anything. I feel alive for the first time in a very long time.

“Goodnight, Carina,” he whispers against my lips before stepping back.

“Night, Nate.”