As I laid resting in bed at night, I turned to peer off the edge of the mattress. Thomas had fallen asleep unexpectedly fast on the floor, curled up in a pile of blankets, finally appearing at peace for the time. Hilariously, keeping him on the floor was not planned to be a power move on my end. I simply did not want any of his open wounds sullying my gray and white sheets. But I suppose there's something to be said for keeping him below me both metaphorically and now literally, which is perhaps also similar to how I'd turned both his life and body upside down today.
I turned and rested on my back, my hands over my abdomen as I focused on the fine, subtle texture of the ceiling. I'm extremely proud to have made this happen; Thomas by my side and, with any luck, stuck with me forever and a day. I'm a positive person, no doubt, but maybe it's time I considered a more practical approach to my situation. What I mean to say is that there does exist a subdued part of my mind that worries about my conduct. I would not call it anxiety but rather a mild apprehension, if that's even an emotion in and of itself. It's the only thing keeping me sensible and out of prison.
The first time I'd killed someone I didn't necessarily plan to get away with it. Well, it was somewhat premeditated, yes, but I did not believe for a second that I would never get caught after what I did. I beat a man over the head with a steel pipe in the park, then sat him amongst the flowers near a park bench, his body laying lifeless amid the lilacs and tallgrass. The desire to kill overwhelmed my better judgment, and I let go of everything I held on to at that time just to make that first murder feasible. I cut ties with family and friends for good, I moved out here to London, and I bought a place all for myself right in advance. Clearly, this is still rather new to me, for it has only been just shy of a year since it all began. The complexities of my circumstances haven't entirely dawned on me just yet, I imagine.
I closed my eyes, making an effort to think myself to sleep. Why did I kill that first man? Evidently, the curiosity and general desire to see suffering was a large part of my motive, but I think that there was also exceptional disbelief involved. Me, killing a person? I wasn't sure I was capable, nor what such a thing would feel like. I wanted to prove myself... to myself. After waiting months and not getting caught, I figured it was a fluke, and I threw myself under the bus yet again to a convenient kill at a public beach. But I don't think I realized just what I was achieving until the third kill, which happened to be my most reckless and my most intimate.
It was the first woman I'd ever killed. Or hurt, for that matter. The first two men most definitely put up more of a fight than that woman did, but I'd been avoiding females for that very reason. I want a challenge and a struggle, not some fleeting and insignificant sense of control over a random innocent woman. Frankly, it can also be quite dangerous and difficult to assume how old a female is, and I didn't want to end up killing a teenager. I have no interest in murdering children. There's still a code among criminals, after all.
Nonetheless, I encountered her in an alleyway not far from the complex, and she was alone, clearly drunk, and lost. She looked to be my age, a little disheveled, petite, and confused. I pushed her into the dark corner, just the two of us forsaken to the dim light peeking between the two buildings I hid us between. My gloved hands easily found their way around her neck and squeezed, and before I knew it, I was on top of her body while suffocating her to death. I think I still have the lip ring I ripped out from her skin when she died. It must be sitting among other items of my collection in my dresser.
And my fourth kill, not many weeks ago, was the first time I'd ever officially disposed of a body-- if you could call it that. I made quick conversation with a small man outside of a club, took him around the building to the lower stairs of an unused building, kicked him down, and that was that. I didn't intend for him to hit his head on the cement below, at least not to the point of incapacitation, but it worked in my favor as I dragged him inside of the old basement-esque room and covered him in pure butane. I threw a match and stood just outside the door to watch as he awoke only to be devoured by flames. Within minutes he had gone still as a statue, and I allowed him to burn until he was nearly only bones. His skull is also in the dresser, though part of his left infraorbital got burnt.
