Alive

Chapter 6: Something Worth Keeping

I woke up a little after 12 and jumped into the shower since my hair was wild and smelled damp from the rain. When I got out I retrieved my bag from my bedroom floor where I'd dropped it, and took out the token I'd stolen from Mark's apartment. A ring I'd found on his bedside dresser.

I wondered why he hadn't sold it. I'm no jewellery expert but the markings etched onto the inner metal surface indicated that it was real gold, and given the financial state he was in, he could've used the cash. Perhaps it was a family heirloom, or a treasured gift from an ex he wasn't over yet. Or perhaps, in his world of misery and debt, he wanted one thing with some value, something worth keeping.

Whatever the reason was, it was obviously precious to him, and since he would forever be mine - in my twisted little way - I figured it belonged with me. I should hold it dear as he did, rather than let it get packed up into a cardboard box along with all his other belongings when someone eventually finds out that he's gone, and won't be returning home.

When I'd moved into my apartment at the age of 18, I searched for hours for a place to hide my trophies. The small attic that seemed to consume light like a black hole, the cubbyhole in the wall of my spare bedroom. I even thought about tearing up some floorboards and stashing my incriminating inventory in the space beneath them. But after thinking about it, I realised that all of those hiding places are too obvious. Pardon the cliché, but I found that the best place to hide something, is in plain sight.

Since I had no connection to any of my victims besides Jessica, and there were never any witnesses or cameras around when I got my hands dirty, I would never be a suspect in any of the unsolved disappearances. The brilliant police force that the people of this country put their trust and their lives into the hands of, hadn't even managed to connect the dots and come to the conclusion that maybe one person was responsible for the growing number of mysterious missing persons reports.

Don't get me wrong I'm not complaining, the police force's incompetence is what keeps me from waking up every day behind bars. But I'm not too sure the average tax paying citizen would be too pleased to hear that.

So, if a police officer ever found themselves lost, standing in my apartment, they wouldn't think twice about the every day items that keep my victims close to me. The gold ring from Mark's dresser? My grandmother gave me that ring in her will, and I keep it on my bedside table because I like to see a part of her every night when I go to sleep.

The battered copy of 'Romeo and Juliet' on the shelf in my living room, that I took from my very first victim, Elizabeth? My high school English teacher gave me her copy on the last day of school since I'd adored studying it and she'd adored teaching me. I had a perfect explanation for each of my perfect, invisible trophies.

As soon as Elizabeth's name had surfaced in my thoughts, I found myself reaching for the old book on the shelf, as I had a thousand times before. I opened it and buried my nose into the paper, inhaling the comforting scent that only these pages could provide.

She had been nothing like what I expected. The first time I killed someone I expected it to be messy and hideous, that's how the movies make it look. For some reason the victim always desperately tries to escape, like nothing is more precious than life even though they'd been taking it for granted up until that point. But Elizabeth, she wasn't like the girls from the movies, she wasn't like the girls from anywhere.

I was 17, it was 2 weeks before my birthday and the urges had grown unbearable. I couldn't fight the voices anymore, because they'd gotten me on side. So, I told my parents I was stopping at a friend's house and instead I spent the night at a park a few bus rides from my home. 'Home' being used in the most neutral sense of the word, as there was nothing warm or welcoming about the house I grew up in. I watched a blur of people pass until one came into focus. Her. Elizabeth.

I followed her home that night, staying far enough away that she wouldn't notice me, but close enough that I wouldn't lose her. But that wasn't the night it happened, because back then I was terrified that I would screw something up. Leave a trace of evidence at the crime scene, unknowingly commit a terrible crime in front of a hidden witness. I thought about everything that could possibly go wrong and I planned for it. I followed her for weeks, watched her, learned her routines.

The way she went for a walk every other
night in her red coat, without fail, and how she always checked the lock on her door three times before she could sleep. My birthday passed but I was overwhelmingly uninterested, as the only gift that I cared for was the promise I had made to myself; that I would do it. I would kill the girl in the red coat, and she would be mine.

Like Mark's gold ring, I learned that Elizabeth was something worth keeping.