A Man With An Addiction

Joy and Hope

A young girl, about twenty five was murdered last night. The fourteenth victim in many months. Some were male, some were female, all were alone and vulnerable. The first, Hope Parker, the girl who had everything, her dad owned a pet care company. She thought this entitles her to anything she wanted; I thought it entitles her to death.

She was the only one I knew. I had only intended to kill her and leave it at that. But as the blood poured from her wounds to her torso, her legs and throat, I could not rid myself of the excitement. The contentment I felt as the steaming liquid rained drops onto the snow covered ground below, staining it a deep pink. That gave beauty to an otherwise plain bit of scenery.

Standing over her body, my breath rising in steamy tendrils through the frosted air, I knew it was something I would repeat. I would kill again, the power I felt as I forced her to the ground, as she fought against me, trying to scream, all gave me a rush of pleasure.

I ran into the woods nearby and contemplated what I had done. My flesh crawled and shivered as the bitter cold penetrated through my now wet body. That night I crept into the garage and used the hose to rinse the blood off of my skin. I thought I would die of hypothermia before I was clean. I switched on the television and had gotten clean clothing from the laundry room.

They do not know my identity, my name is elusive, but they are quite familiar with my work.

The second victim was a woman walking around a restaurant. The restrooms were outside and in the back. It was easy for me to grab her and force her inside. She opened her mouth and a shrill screech began, I cut it short as I placed my hand over her mouth and smashed her into the wall behind her. She instantly went unconscious and slip to the floor, a thick trail of blood streaming behind her. I moved my fingers over her thigh, the pink flesh was so soft and delicate. I ran my fingers through her hair, the blood staining my palm a deep red. The split in the skin drew my interest and I found myself pushing my fingers into it, widening the gap. I felt the slick hardness of her skull. Suddenly I had to know what lingered beneath. What did it feel like? I wanted to know very much which sort of changed me from the man I was 10 seconds ago. The human brain defies us as masters of our world.

I looked around for something to hit her with, something hard enough to crack her skull. Finding nothing more than a toilet paper, I curled my fingers tightly in her hair and smashed her head against the wall as hard as my strength would allow. A sharp crack followed by a squelching sound brought about a deep satisfaction. I placed my fingers roughly into the grey matter of her brain and wiggle them furiously, turning it into mush. I will say, his adrenaline made it a repeated behaviour.

A young woman had stopped beside me and the vending machine, "What kind of monster would do such a thing?", she wondered out loud. I contemplated her question then answered simply, "An invisible one. One with an addiction, I would guess."
Of course I knew it was an addiction and I could not stop. Like the heroin addict it was something I now had to have. I had to feel that power, that rush of feelings as their life floated away one could at a time. The young woman smiled at me "I guess that is true, I guess all serial killers have some addiction or they wouldn't continue."

"Yes", I began, a serial killer, this way I had not looked at myself. I thought of myself as a man addicted, a man in need. Now, serial killer had such a lovely ring to it.

"My name is Joy", she said offering a gloved hand. I took it in my own, blood thundering in my ears. She said Joy, I'm but almost certain, I heard fifteen.