Blood. All over my hands. In the moonlight it glistens. Almost appears fake. If I didn't know where it came from I'd swear it was paint. Only thing is paint is thicker, more dense. Blood on the other hand is wetter, and, at least in this case, warmer. Which brings to mind: One. The only way the temperature of blood remains heighten is when the body it came from was recently killed, and two—as I again submerge my hands into this man's chest cavity—the smell of paint and blood are distinctively different. Paint makes me nauseous. A single whiff and I'm instantly sick. And then there's the quickening aroma of blood. Like an aphrodisiac it makes me feel alive, powerful. At times I honestly think I missed my calling and if I could go back and choose, in another century I would have become a heart surgeon. That way I could've learned to satisfy my morbid fetishes without succumbing to criminal extremes. Be that as it may, this is not the time for what ifs and what would have beens. Wishful thinking aside, I am not a doctor and had I become one, a lot of my patients would have suffered the same fate. Purposely I would've killed the majority of them as the only other thing I loathe more than blood is death. To watch a person slip in horror from behind the eyes staring back at you is to be experienced. Regardless of how much you endure them leading up to that point, it's what takes place in that split-second they know they're about to die that makes everything exponentially worth it. If I said it wasn't a lot of work I'd be lying, and at least in this particular instant, there's really no reason to. Believe me, I'm completely okay with murdering the innocent, especially if for me the process proves just as exhilarating.
Soop.
Soop.
Soop. My hatchet steadies as I hack away in order to remove this poor, poor man’s heart. “Never smoked a day in my life, no children, I'd like to think I'm a true gentleman," the deceased joked when we first met. From an article in the local paper, like his father I gathered he was looking for a long-term relationship, only the serious and adventurous need reply. Little did he know, though an audacious relationship I wasn't interested in, I was serious. Dead serious. As a matter of fact I'll make sure I note so in my journal. His name? What does it matter? From now on he'll simply be referred to as...Number Six.
Soop.
Soop.
Soop.
YOU ARE READING
The Widower Murders
Misterio / SuspensoTwo decades ago, a total of five widowers were killed by a female serial killer named Ella Timmins. Believed to have been the fifth, local philanthropist and businessman, Adrian Price, was discovered bludgeon and mutilated in his mansion, Price Esta...
