Desire to kill

A killer's POV

He had not managed to scrub off all her blood. A dark line like a parenthesis lay under the middle fingernail of his left hand. He set to digging it out, although he quite liked seeing it there:  a momento of the previous day's pleasures. After a minute's fruitless scrapping, he put the bloody nail in his mouth and sucked. The ferrous tang recalled the smell of he torrent that had splashed wildly onto the tiled floor, spatterng the walls, drenching his jeans and tearning the peach coloured rosary into a slight shade of pink. He dipped the blood completely in the towels-fluffy, dry and neatly folded towels and carefully folded them into blood soaked rags. 

Colours seemed brighter this morning,the world a lovlier place. He felt serene and uplifted, as though he had absorbed the life out of her and transfused her into him. They belonged to you once you killed them: it was a possession way beyond sex. Even to know how they looked at the moment of death was an intimacy way past anything two living bodies could experience. 

With a thrill of excitement he reflected that nobody knew what he had done, nor what he was planning to do next. He sucked his middle finger, happy and at peace, leaning up against the warm wal in the weak April sunshine, his eyes on the opposite house. 

It was not a smart house. Ordinary. A nicer place to live, admittedly, then the tiny flat where yesterday's blood-stiffened clothing lay in black bin bags, awaiting incineration, and where his knives lay gleaming, washed clean with bleach, rammed up behind the U-bend under the kitchen sink. 

This house had a small front garden, black railings and a lawn in need of mowing. Two white front doors had been crammed together side by side, showing that the three-storey building had been converted into upper and lower flats. A girl called Bianca Stephan lived on the ground floor. Though he had made it his business to find out her real name, inside his own mind he called her "The Secretary". He had just seen her pass in front of the bow window, easily recongnisable because of her bright hair.

Watching The Secretary was an extra, a pleasurable add-on. He had a few hours spare so he had decided to come back and look at her. Today was a day of rest, between the glories of yesterday and tomorrow, between the satisfaction of what had been done and the excitement of what would happen next. 

The right-hand door opened unexpectedly and The Secretary came out, accompanied by an old man. 

Still leaning into the warm wall, he stared along the street with his profile turned towards them, so that he might appear to be waiting for a friend. Neither of them paid him any attention. They walked off up the street, side by side. After he had given them a minute's head start, he decided to follow.

She was wearing jeans, a light jacket and flat-heeled boots. Her long wavy hair was slightly chocolate brown now that he saw her in the sunshine. He thought he detected a slight reserve between her and the old man, who was probably her father, or an uncle. They weren't talking to each other. He was good at reading people. He had read and charmed the girl who had died yesterday among the blood-soaked towels. 

Down the long residential street he had tracked them, his hands in his pockets, ambling along as though heading for the shops, his sunglasses unremarkable on his brilliant morning. Trees waved gently in the slight spring breeze. At the end of the street the pair ahead turned left into a wide, busy thoroughfare lined with the offices. Sheet glas windows blazed high above him in the sunlight as they passed the Office Of the Magistrate of Delhi. 

Now, The Secretary's father turned towards her and told her something that was so inaudible. The Secratary didnt seem to be happy, She returned a short answer and did not smile. She was rather crying. 

Women were so petty, mean, dirty and small. Sulky bitches, the lot of them, expecting men to keep them happy. Only when they lay dead and empty in front of you did theu become purified, mysterious and even wonderful. They were entirely yours then, unable to argue or struggle or leave, yours to do with whatever you liked. The other one's corpse had been heavy and floppy yesterdat after he had drained it of blood: his life-sized plaything, his toy.

They had arrived at a bus stop. He hovered nearby, pretending to look thorugh the door of a curry house, at fruit piled up high in a grocer's store. They were getting to get on bus number 34. He didn't have a lot of money in his pockets, but he was so enjoying watching her that he did not want to end it yet. As he climbed aboard, he heard the old man say Sarita Vihar, he bought a ticket and followed them upstairs.

The Secretary sat in the left seat just in front of the door. A young girl of 14yrs with a school uniform sat next to her. But the Secretary was oblivious to all things happeneing around her. She didnt notice the smile on the young girl's face. She didnt notice the sadness in her father's face. She was looking out of the window, unsmiling. She didn't want to go where they were going. When she pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, he noticed her eyes watering. He hid his faint smile in the upturned collar of his jacket. The warm midday sun was pouring through the dirt-strippled bus windows. A group of men got on and filled the surrounding seats. A couple of them were wearing red and black basketball jerseys.

He felt, suddenly, as though the day's radiance had dimmed. Those shirts, with the cresent mon and star, had associations he did not like. They reminded him of a time when he had not felt like God. He did not want his happy day spotted and stained by old memories, bad memories, but his elation was suddenly draining away. Angry now-a teenage boy in the group caught his eye, but looked away hurriedly, alarmed. He got up and headed back to the stairs. 

When he reached the pavement he looked up at the bus's front windows and caught a last glimpse of The Secretary's chocolate brown headd. He would be seeing her in less than 24hrs. The reflecton helped calm the sudden rage caused by the sight of those jerseys. The bus rumbled off and he strde away in the opposite directon, soothing himself as he walked.

He had a wonderful plan. Nobody knew. Nobody suspected. ANd he had something wonderful very special waiting for him in the fridge at home.

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Guys, PLEASE PLEASE tell how this chapter is. I put on a lot of hardwork and research on the psychaitrics of a murderer. 

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