The Devil In Disguise

CHAPTER 30: Innocent Saviour

I ran to the toilets, my hand over my mouth, and vomited into the sink.

I wasn't a queasy person. I swear. It's just... the way the teacher dissected the frog. So careless, like it never lived. Like that small, delicate heart had never pumped with all its might to keep the frog alive. Like those lungs had never been filled with the fresh, morning air which powered the palm-sized frog to wake up every day and go about its innocent life. No, she sliced it, cut it, twisted little tubes and had the audacity to scrunch her nose at the dead, rotting odour that she was responsible for releasing into the air which wasn't fresh anymore.

I wasn't queasy. Just humane.

Her technique had reminded me of his. So much knowledge of the human body, animal bodies, insect bodies. Yet so careless like they don't care about any body other than their own. The way she cut the poor thing... the way he cut the innocent people. The three girls who came to an ugly end just because they wore makeup... I couldn't erase their terrified faces from my mind. They were just trying to fit in, enjoy life, and he slashed their dreams with the flourish of a blade.

The second time I was taken, someone had found me. An elderly man, in his late fifties; in good shape, with bulging muscles, sporting a friendly-looking handlebar moustache. He'd heard my screams.

I'd been taken to a cosy-looking bungalow in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere; hidden from the unobservant eye, of course. It was shrouded by trees and the lilting bird songs never ceased to fill all ears with melodies.

No one knew, even if they found the bungalow, that it stood above a basement. A basement where I was kept. The first time I was taken, I had been thrown into a similar place, but in different woods and a different place completely. I wondered how many of these innocent looking, desolate bungalows he owned.

I knew there was no point screaming so I just sat, free to roam my cellar, staring into the blood-splattered mirror and wondering. If eyes were the windows to the soul, why couldn't I see mine?

He'd come down the wooden, creaking steps. I heard but didn't move. My heart sped up anyway, but I didn't dare turn and face the monster. His squeaky clean shoes had thumped their way over to me, and one even prodded my slumped figure. When I hadn't responded, he raised his hand and slapped me on the cheek. It stung more than usual because I already had a bruise there from a previous struggle. He'd won, just like every other fucking time.

"I'm going out. Be good or you know what I'll do," he'd said simply, his velvet voice harsh and cruel. Then, he'd turned and walked up the stairs, to where there was a wooden door: the basement door. He unlocked it, walked out, and locked it behind him. I distantly heard the main door of the bungalow slam shut and lock, and I was alone.

I'd stayed in the same position for a few more hours, I knew that for sure. I couldn't remember the thoughts that went through my head, if any. I'd just been... a shell.

The stab wound on my arm needed to be disinfected. The blood had dried around it like crusted rubies but the whole area was agonisingly burning.

I didn't know how to disinfect wounds. I didn't know anything about stab wounds. So I crawled to the medicine cupboard where a few medicines were kept. Only a little of everything, so no victims would overdose and save him the pleasure of murdering them.

Grabbing the disinfectant spray with my good arm, I gritted my tongue and sprayed the cold, yellow-tinged vapour into the wound...

And screamed. The pain was instant, it was like every nerve in my body had reared its head and bitten into my flesh. It felt as if the spray was acid, and instead of disinfecting it I thought it was doing the opposite, so still groaning from the pain, I staggered to the sink and poured water into it.