Heart of A Serial Killer (Larry)

Chapter 2: New Things

Harry was on his way home.

He had only been a few minutes late to dinner, everyone had only just started eating, but Anne hadn't minded. She had his dinner prepared and put on a plate; and left it in the oven for when her son arrived.

It was quite delicious, as always, but Harry had repeatedly asked for more cherry sauce on his fillet fish. Why ? He didn't know. Maybe because it was thick. And red. And liquidy. And very, very - maybe too - appealing. Like blood. Sweet, lip-licking, alluring blood. That ran through the veins of his victims via their no longer-beating hearts and out the torn skin and muscle of their fatal wounds; spilling over the cuts and onto the floor, staining the carpet like a fine tea that he wouldn't mind drinking right now ..

Shit.

Harry tried to shake the thought out of his head, albeit getting nowhere. Because yes, the cherry sauce was quite appealing and did appear to resemble blood - and tea, in a way - but that couldn't have been why he wanted more .. could it ? Like, sure, he'd thought about trying human flesh before; after tearing out their windpipes, crushing their skulls and effectively killing them, Harry would tear the three layers of flesh off the corpses and create bite sized pieces with his teeth, like one would do with a well-cooked steak that just wouldn't break under the blade.

He had never done it before, no, but he came so close to doing so when he murdered the waitress. The thought of her burning, cooked flesh and chewy veins with-holding the boiled red liquid was too intriguing for him. He decided against it, though, came the moment when he was admiring his work. He had the dinner that night - or, in technicality, an hour ago - and he couldn't face the hurt of his mother's feelings by entering her house with a full stomach.

Harry was tempted to capture a random passer-by just so he could eat their flesh and fill his darkest, hungriest desires that remained in the lowest pit of his now growling stomach. He could cut out the pathways that connected their organs, and violently remove said organs to place in some kind of jar or container. Then he could either keep them as trophies to decorate his apartment with to remind him of his glory days, or bake them to a soft yet chewy stance in his own oven and have his dinner prepared for the next two weeks.

Harry really needed to stop this; he wasn't Hannibal Lecter.

Or, he could be.

Harry decided to turn on the radio, to distract him from the thoughts of eating organs and the charcoaled flesh of the burning waitress. Music would help take his mind of things. Music always helps.

When the radio was turned on and tuned into the most well-known station, however, no music was playing. At first Harry thought he tuned into a current commercial break, due to the talking voices and urgency they spoke in, until he heard the breaking news being reported that Crimson had striked again and that this time, he had decided to display his new victim as an appetizer instead of just dumping them in some unknown, un-inhabited useless house and/or piece of land, if not their own apartment or a trash can.

Well, fuck.

One just could not rely on society for anything these days, really. What. A. Goddamn. Shame.

Harry was listening intently to the radio show reporter; describing how they had found the body in an over-heated oven, the body fried to a crisp with smoke escaping from the cracks in the glass that were caused from the door being shut with just a little less force then that used to create the large hole in the side of the corpse's skull. The news reporter wouldn't go into too much detail, not really. Despite being just past eleven o'clock, some middle school kids might still be awake, the stubborn little shits ... Or people were listening to a little radio before going to sleep and might've had nightmares at the images the reporter could've recited.