Blood on the Wall
He sits on his couch exhausted by his day, but mentally satisfied. For now. He knows that no matter how great the kill, the beast wouldn’t be satisfied for long. Realizing that all he is doing is sitting and thinking, he decides that he might as well get to cleaning his knife. It served him well today, one of his greatest kills. The memories of making strategic cuts all over her body so he could watch her slowly bleed to death fill his head. See, other people prefer to use guns because you don’t need to be right there and can be as far as possible, but he has a different opinion. With a knife, though, you need to be up in their space. You are right there when their heartbeat slows, when they take their last breath, when the life leaves their eyes. It’s personal. It’s beautiful.
His eyes flash open. Guessing by how dark it is outside, he is expecting it to be around 2-ish. It was 2:18, close enough. His stomach lurches. It isn’t time yet. The need for his next kill is overwhelming. The beast claws its way out. “Stop!” he screams, trying to gain control over his body. The beast laughs, a maniacal, crazed laugh. He stops fighting and lets the addiction take over. It’s time to find a new victim.
Grabbing his coat, he moves towards the door, already planning his new kill. He is not too deep in his thoughts to miss the universally known flashing of red and blue. Cops. He stops walking. The beast roars, commanding him to keep going, but his feet are firmly planted. His eyes search for the reason for their arrival, stopping on a few of them discussing what seems like serious matters with none other than his pesky neighbor. Everybody has one. “The nosy neighbor.” Always butting their head in other’s business. She should’ve been his first victim. That would’ve kept the beast satisfied for quite a while. He notices the group’s eyes flitting to his house every few moments. “They are getting warmer,” he thinks in a singsong manner, his lips stretching into a cold smile.
He is sitting on a chair, his back facing the door. They should be here any second now. He begins counting down, 3… 2… 1. He hears a knock on the door. He chuckles. “So predictable, these fools,” he thinks.
“Hello, is anybody there? It’s the police. We just want to ask you a few questions, that’s all. Hello?” one of the men says nervously.
It’s now time for his final kill. One so great that it would satisfy the beast, once and for all. The beast whimpered, begging for his treat. He heard someone prying at his lock, trying to force the door open. Game over. His finger brushes the trigger, then pulled.
The shot echoed long after it had been fired. The police, finally picking the lock, shoved the door open to see what had happened. There, on the floor, laid a brunette man in his late 20’s with a bullet in his head and a creepy smile on his face. This was the killer they had been hunting for. One who had killed 27 victims, well now 28. Case closed.
Path: Creative Writing
Program: Camp
Location: Cupertino, South Bay
Teacher: Leanne Lopes
