Serial

Diary Entry: September 2nd

Trigger warning: This part contains explicit descriptions of murder, rape and/or torture, which may be disturbing or triggering for some readers.

September 2nd

Went by the station again today, hoping to see Emmy. She wasn't there, but one of her co-workers, this black kid a few years older than her, was.

This was actually fine, because I'd wanted to check out the scene anyway. So, I chatted the kid up as he pumped my gas. He was wearing trendy jeans and shiny red and black basketball shoes—too clean not to be new. No way he was making enough money to afford things like that on his station job alone. Which meant he'd do what he needed to, to get what he wanted.

This was something we had in common.

It took me less than seven minutes to get him to give up Emmy's address. I began to tell him that she was a friend of mine, a newer friend of mine, and that she'd asked me over but I'd lost the directions she'd given me. Turns out, he didn't care.

"If I help you, how you gonna help me?" the kid had asked, cutting me off in the middle of my made-up story.

I appreciated both his no bullshit approach as well as his entrepreneurial mindset. It only cost me $50 and then I had the information I wanted.

1976 W Chanslor Ave.

I wondered what her place was like. How she'd decorated her bedroom. Was she sweet in the sheets, or a freak? I wasn't sure which prospect made me more excited...

The kid at the station gave me some other information, too. Like, that she's a dancer. Not pole or anything, but ballet. All proper. I can see that now. Something about the way she moved. Pretty and soft-like.

When I drove by her house that night, the lights were on. I imagined her in there, cooking herself dinner, wishing she had someone to share it with. I wanted to drop by then, but I had something else I needed to take care of.

Something more...pressing.

Veronica.

I'd met Veronica at a coffee-joint just off of campus a few days before. She was a grad student at the college—not in my department, but in a fellow colleague's. At first, it was nice. We talked about school, movies, the park they were remodeling on campus. She was pretty, in a homely way. A little chunky, like she'd never fully recovered from the freshman 15. But she had a nice face and a good smile, so I was willing to overlook her other...shortcomings. That's what gyms were for anyway, right?

But then she screwed things up. Not once, but twice. Like, she thought I was stupid or something. And I'm not stupid.

She needed to know that. She needed to be taught a lesson. Learn that she was lucky I was talking to her at all.

So, after driving by Emmy's, I'd gone over to Veronica's. She lived alone, so I didn't have to worry about anyone seeing me. It was clear that she was happy I'd shown up. And when I asked her to join me for dinner, she got this look on her face like she'd won.

She didn't even change before she followed me out the door.

I drove her toward the mountains and when she started to ask me questions about where we were going, I punched her so hard that her head hit the passenger window.

And then finally, silence.

The girl liked to talk and sometimes a guy just wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Or at least not hear the nagging of some chick.

When we finally got there, I dumped her body in the living room and blindfolded her before screwing her. I've learned that it's scarier for them when they can't see it coming. Brings up their childhood fears of monsters hiding in the dark.

Once she woke up, I had her again. More slowly this time. Then I asked her to scream for me.

At first she didn't want to comply with the unusual request, so I had to give her some incentive. Her bones cracked as I hit her with the sledgehammer. That got her screaming and it was music to my ears.

I taped her, and then listened to the recording in my car on the way home.

Later, she begged for her life...they all do. It's one of my biggest pet-peeves. How do they not realize that they're not in a position to ask for anything?

"Please, don't kill me," she'd wailed, her arms hanging limply by her sides, looking a lot like tenderized pieces of meat. "I'll do anything you want."

"You'll do anything I want, anyway," a voice that sounded nothing like mine had responded.

"I promise I won't tell anyone," she'd said.

They always tried this, too, like their death was up for negotiation. Like they had any control over what was going to happen to them. Like their fates hadn't been sealed hours before.

"I know you won't."

Because it was over.

I'd delivered the killing blow, and because of the blindfold, she'd had no idea it was coming. Well, except for the sound the metal made as it scraped against each other. It would be the last thing she'd hear.

And then it was done.

Veronica was number 11.

I drove by Emmy's place on my way home later. This time her lights were out.