Chasing Polaroids

Chapter Two (1/2)

JEMMA.

The tumbleweeds outside are as loud as the silence in my head.

          There is no one in the library, at least there won't be for the next few hours. When people get up at six in the morning, most decide to exercise, prepare their meals for the day, plan ahead, so that the day doesn't become an overwhelming concoction of stress and delusion.

          In a sense, that's the route I've decided to take. After a kill, the silence of the local library is soothing. The gentle breeze of the early coming staff that pass by and the faint smell of aging books is enough to bring me out of the sensory overload and exhaustion of a post-humous affair. Going at this particular time of day is best – when no one is quite alive enough to decide to go to the library.

          Today is a particularly trying time in my head. I've fucked up. Left evidence on the killing grounds. That polaroid – the one remnant of a kill that I cherish – now in the hands of people who will use it to take away that cherished pastime. With each step I make, I feel the tension inside me rise, like a pool of acids trying so desperately to spill out of me. The danger chills me, but at the same time... it gives me excitement.

          But I know I can't act on that excitement. It is the devil's touch, tempting me to do all the things that have dropped worse killers than me. Jeffrey Dahmer was caught for acting on his lust, leading him down a hole he couldn't dig himself out of. Ted Bundy was arrested for burglary, recognized by a survivor of his kidnapping, and then fell into an even larger can of worms once police started to connect the dots. I've avoided all of those mistakes; I've killed my victims, I've left no evidence, I've left every single speck of dust I stood on spotless, except for now. Of course, this isn't the only time this has happened, there was one other occurrence. But I have gotten past that time in my life, and I'm supposed to be better now. Stable. Responsible. How I let this slip me by, I don't know, but I think it's telling me one thing: I'm overworked. One kill after another, one body overcoming the next. The urge to make mistakes, the natural calling of the human being to err, it calls to me. It called to me last night, and I answered the call by leaving the polaroid on the ground I stood on, forever tainting my record.

          I sit back on the worn-out office chair and rub my forehead. My temple is pounding, exhausted at all the stress I've accumulated. My eyes feel heavy, sagging at the weight of last night's inconvenient guest. Whoever she was, she wasn't supposed to be there. But I wouldn't have killed her -- not in the slightest -- because she didn't do anything wrong. All that means is that I've failed.  

          I'm tired. Weary. I need a break, something different to do.

          I open up the computer, hearing the whizzing and buzzing of the machine as it comes to life. It's old, no doubt, and I feel as though at any moment the computer could fall apart if I look at it the wrong way. Which is one of the problems with this place; the age. Las Vegas is supposed to be the land where everything's in tip-top shape. We're internationally recognized, popular, the home of casinos and bustling bars and the sweat of the party. But that's just the problem – the only things given attention are the things that this city has become known for. All the casinos and bars are in their best condition, while every single other thing has to suffer under the guise of dust and wreckage. It isn't fair, but then again, when has life ever been fair?

          The computer finally awakens from its slumber. I drag the mouse along to open the browser, and with one solid click – it opens. I go into the search engine and type 'Donald Larsen'. Soon, I have 100,000 hits.

          Except none of these are what they used to be. When I investigated my soon to be victim who'd become my soon to be problem, the search results used to be at a smaller volume. They all used to not be connected too; random bust shots of professors or doctors who have the unfortunate luck of sharing the demented Donald's name. Now, though, the results were filled with new life, bombarded with news reports and columns on the kill that I had performed. Most are appalled, some are surprised, but one thing is for certain: they don't know that it was me. Donald became a star overnight. Granted, he didn't become a star for actually doing anything good (or doing anything period), but hey, any press is good press in the City that Never Sleeps.