Roseys, Roseys

 

She was perfect. Tall, pink skin, and deep brown eyes; with such glossy black curls in her hair. She was truly perfect. He stood, waiting by the tree they were going to meet by, going over what he was going to say. He had left so many notes, each with a small fake rose. This was the last note he had left, telling her to meet him. He was such a romantic. He had only known her a few months, much shorter than the last girls, and he was already doing his routine special date. Lost in his thoughts, his head suddenly snapped around, to find that she was finally here. His breath shook with excitement at the thought of all the things he had planned for them tonight. She wore a simple outfit; a modest white blouse, and a blue jean skirt, with a little fake rose, pinned to her collar, just like he'd told her. She held the note in her hand, and looked at it over and over again, making sure she was in the right place at the right time. She thought it was romantic, too. Meeting in secret in a park just outside the city, late at night. "Just a little closer...", he thought to himself. He wanted to surprise her. She kept moving forward. "Closer. Closer... Almost there..." He clutched the knife in his hand a little tighter. She sat on the bench beside the tree to wait. *snap* She turned around, but it was too late. He brandished the large knife with a malicious grin, too wide for a thin face like his. Most of the girls screamed. She didn't. 

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He lifted her severed head to level with his and kissed it. She was so beautiful, so perfect. He took the knife again, and cut the hair he grasped in his hands from it's hold on her scalp. The hair cut loose, and her head fell to ground with a sickening splat. He looked down in disgust. Such a pretty face shouldn't fall to dirty floor. He lay the hair on a table by him, and picked up the head. Oh yes, she was going in his trophy room. He cleaned her neck, and pulled aside a board from the wall of the rickety shack, and put her on a shelf, next to a half decomposed skull. The smell was so powerful and vile, anyone would gag and vomit, but he embraced the smell of rotting flesh. It's a shame she wouldn't last. Well, depending how much product she used in her hair. He stroked her head one last time, and closed the board. He grabbed the chunk of hair again and sat down on a broken matress. He pulled a small binder from a stack of books next to him, and put her hair in a small plastic bag. He took a sharpie and wrote her name: "Molly Winters, age 20". He smoothed out the bag, but the binder still didn't close all the way. He leafed through the other bags in the book. Eleven in all. He lay back, pressing the book to his heart, and closed his eyes. 

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He awoke to the sound of laughter outside. It was ringing and far away, but loud. He took his telescope from a pile of junk, and looked out his window to see two girls. Two beautiful, brown-haired, blue-eyed girls. He smiled and threw on a jacket, and hurried out the door. Sticking to the trees and shadows, he followed them out of the woods, in to the park, and out to the highway, where they hailed a taxi. He panicked and ran toward them. He slammed in to the car, and knocked on the window, signaling the driver to roll down the window. "Do you mind if I ride with you? I need to get to the hospital quick!", he lied. The girls swallowed it, and told him it was fine. He slid in to the seat next to them, and smiled at them. They chatted for a bit, and luckily for him, they got off first, and walked in to their apartment building. He pulled out a cell phone, Molly's cell phone, and pretended to get a call telling him to not bother coming to the hospital. He thanked the driver, paid him, and got off the taxi. He made sure he drove away before following them to their room. He hurried, quietly, up the stairs after them, and caught their door closing. What luck he was having. New girls, and so soon after. He pulled some paper and a pen out of his pocket, smiling dreamily as he wrote. When he was done, he left it on their doormat. Something was missing. He pulled a trinket out of his pocket. A small fake rose. He couldn't wait for the fun to begin. 

 

(please do not interpret this story as me being a psychopath. I like kittens, and my favorite color is bright neon orange, and I think that Pinkie Pie is the best pony. Does that sound like a psychopath to you? I wrote this to make my first attempt to get in to the mind of a serial killer. I want to be a Forensic Psychologist, to catch people like that. While some say i'm wastingmy childhood, preparing so early for a job I won't even get a chance to earn for another sixteen years, I say that you're never too young to start getting good at something. Partially inspired by the psychological thriller "Salad Fingers" on Youtube by David Firth, hence the hair collection.)