The Ragdoll

Oliver Preston

"How do you know my name?" Emily asked as Oliver pulled her away from The Fork.

"They arrested the Ragdoll Killer, it was all over the news," Oliver replied. "They know who you are now, and so does everyone else."

Emily stared at him. For the first time in a long time, she was afraid. Oliver continued.

"They've reached the conclusion that you've killed your father. They found no other evidence."

"I didn't kill him."

"I believe you."

"That's the whole reason why I came to this damned city. I want to find him, and I want to kill him. I won't rest until I do. I won't stop coming after him until he is in the palm of my hand. He did this to my face. He did this to my life."

Emily turned away so Oliver wouldn't see her in case she started tearing up.

"I want to help you, Emily."

She turned back around.

"What?"

"You heard me. I want to help you get the asshole in your grasp."

Emily kept staring at him.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I'm like you. A virus."

"A virus?"

"Yeah. You see, the masses see people like us as a virus. Something that should be stomped out before it spreads. But we're not a virus, we don't have something people can catch. Somewhere along the way, we just got lost. Emily, I've been following your work for a while now. Everything you've done, all the people you've killed, I know you're not doing this on a whim. There's a reason. I think you have something inside of you, something that pulls on you from the inside and makes you crave the feeling you get when you spill blood. The feeling like you're in charge and nothing, absolutely nothing can bring you down."

Oliver was starting to scare Emily with his accuracy. The psychopath continued.

"I get that feeling too. The first time I killed was when I was nine years old. I was at recess and I slit a boy's throat with a pair of safety scissors for harassing a girl that I thought was pretty. After that moment, I didn't want to stop. So, I kept going. I was a rolling stone, hopping from place to place, killing anyone who got in my way with my weapon of choice."

Oliver gestured to the large pair of metal scissors in his hand

"So, yes, Emily. I want to help you," he said. "I want to help you get revenge on the man that made you this way. Although we can't help feeling it, this feeling we get inside of us, this lust for blood, is in no way a good feeling. We're human beings that murder other human beings. Anyone who does that is surely evil. But we can't help it, and that in itself is even more evil. So all people like us can do is get revenge. It's too late for me. But I can help you.

Emily swallowed her fear and smiled.

"I think you and I are gonna get along, Mr. Preston."

***

Oliver had a hideout too, but his wasn't as dramatic as Emily's. He lived in a one bedroom, one bathroom apartment in the West side of the city. He rented the apartment from an old and nearly blind man, so the chances of him getting caught were extremely slim.

Oliver opened the front door, (which had a large, gold-painted "6" one the front) and stood aside to let Emily walk in.

She stood in awe, staring at the small room before her while Oliver shut the door and stared with her.

"It's something, ain't it?" Oliver asked.

"No," Emily replied. "It's almost completely empty."

What Emily said was true, Oliver's apartment had almost no furniture or decoration, except for a small tattered couch, a wooden table with one chair, and a Grosse Pointe Blank poster lazy tacked onto his wall.

"I don't like clutter," Oliver chuckled.

"Can I ask you a question?" Emily asked.

"Depends."

"Why have I never heard of you?"

"I've never been caught."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"I know how to clean up after myself. Unlike you. Leaving dead bodies in dumpsters. That's pretty sloppy for a supposed pro like you."

"I'm not a pro, I'm just famous. Why the scissors?"

"I don't know. I just always liked the way they feel in my hand. They cut deeper than a knife, and they get old. They rust. They get scratched. They're like a person, they're like my only friend."

"They're not your only  friend."

Oliver smiled a toothy smile and offered his guest a seat on his small leather couch. They both sat down.

"This is where you're gonna be staying from now on," Oliver said. "And unless I'm with you, I don't want you going out into the open. I know how to get out of a sticky situation."

Emily nodded in agreement.

"How old are you, Oliver?"

"Twenty-two. You?"

"Eighteen."

"Jesus."

"What?"

"Now we really have to find the man that did this to you."

They both chuckled.

"Speaking of which," Oliver continued. "As far as finding the man, I think I know where to start."

"Where?"

"I know a guy. Well, two guys."