Page 4 of Unlikable
This was starting to get boring.
He had hoped that if he dumped the body in a public place this time, the startled reactions would give him a bigger adrenaline rush.
But no. It is still boring. Too predictable.
Felicity’s eyes stare at him from the shelf above his dresser. They are on star water in a glass jar standing next to other jars. These, like Felicity’s, are filled with the eyes of his victims.
“Look at me.” He grins, making eye contact with every victim who ever rejected him. “Who has the last laugh now? Who has your gaze forever?”
Silence.
He expects no response, no sound. Still…
It’s starting to get monotonous.
The police are too foolish to even look his way. No one suspects him.
No one ever pays attention to him.
And that’s the problem. That’s why he started all this.
“Look at me!” he shouts again. Louder, more compelling.
But the eyes in the jars slowly turn over in the water, as if to mock him even in death.
You will never be enough.
You don’t think I want anything to do with you, do you?
Have you even seen yourself?
He cries out and yanks open the top drawer of the sideboard. Jars rattle, and needles stick dangerously out of its side.
“Not much more,” he mutters to himself. “I need to make more.”
Because if he no longer finds satisfaction here in Canterbury, he will have to look further. Then he must go to the city, which is bustling with life and where hopefully police are somewhat smarter and can give him the excitement he so longs for.
He starts by preparing empty jars and takes a few turns about the room, looking for the right ingredients.
It takes him a whole night to replenish his supply. It must be enough; he must not run short. Who knows what kind of people walk around London? How many will stare at him in disgust?
Once the remedy is made and distributed to the new jars, he starts packing his things. It’s not much, but he doesn’t need much either. He does arrange for a place to stay.
He is ready to leave. The newspaper with the article about his new murder lies triumphantly in front of the door, like a doormat. A nice welcome greeting for himself every time he enters the room.
His gaze falls on the article, then he looks back once more at what he is leaving behind—not much—and grins. The eyes on the shelf above the sideboard watch him anxiously.
“I’m sorry, darlings. London is calling me.”
He opens the door.
I’m coming, London, I’m coming fast.
He takes a step outside.
“It won’t take long. I’m coming fast and quick now.”
He closes the door.
Because in the end, I will come back anyway.
He leaves Canterbury.