"Uhm.. Sir? Can I help you?" I mumble while staring at him.
He breaks out into a huge grin, the kind of grin you see on little kids when they get their favorite toy.
He reaches out to me, and I start to fall backwards trying to move away. He latch...
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Ryder's Three Days:
Walking out of the hotel room, I slam the door behind me, taking the stairs two at a time to get away as quickly as possible.
She doesn't want you. She doesn't want you. She doesn't want you.
The sentence repeating inside my head.
Why else would she tell me to take her life, unless it was to get away from me? She should know by now that even in death, she will be with me. If I ever was to kill her, I would keep and preserve her corpse. I would never let her go. Death is a beautiful thing, and Layla's corpse would make it even more beautiful. She would be perfect, frozen forever as my own personal doll.
The thought of killing Layla arouses me. Death in general has always done so, but with her, it is magnified.
I have been attracted to death since I was a child. It started at six skinning cats, and cutting them open because I needed to see what was on the inside. It fascinated me. I thought it would stop there but as I became a teenager, the urge grew until I could no longer control it. I needed to see what was on the inside of humans. And so that is exactly what I did at the age of 13. Nobody seems to point fingers at a young teen when people start going missing.
I'll never forget seeing the first person's life drain from their eyes, the warm blood coating my hands as the smell of iron hit my senses, the pure curiosity and fascination when I cut them open. It started something that I wasn't able to stop.
Over the decades we've seen serial killers claim trauma, demons, how they were raised, all these things made them kill. But that wasn't the case with me. I don't have demons. I was raised very well. I have no deep rooted trauma. This is just me. I was born this way.
And I love it.
As I am lost in thought, I hear crunching beneath my feet and look down curiously to see broken orange leaves underneath me. I glance upwards seeing I have winded up in a neighborhood, with people glancing at me with concerned faces.
Why are they looking at me like that?
I spin around, to get a full view of everything around me, and I feel the people closing in on me.
The paranoia seeps into my mind, as I feel my heart start to race, and my skin start to crawl.
