Death and Other Fun Stuff (#Wattys2015)

Victim

Dear Leah,

Your image is scorched into my mind- azure eyes framed by chestnut colored glasses, and blonde hair like ocean waves. I can't forget the way your eyebrows scrunched together when you plucked low, thrumming notes on your beloved bass guitar, the way you tapped your foot to the music of the rock band you played with. They all wore black, and their ears were studded with glittering piercings. But you kept your style simple. They respected you for it, in fact, they loved you for it. It was an inside joke. Remember how Dave would tease you for your subtle personality while introducing the band?

I don't usually talk about my days in the band. I know you all forgot about the time when I was your drummer. To this day, I crave the sound of a roaring audience, the thrill of millions of eyes watching me play music with my friends. But I suppose I earned my expulsion from Frisson.

You were the only one who knew it was me who committed the crime. I remember they refused to believe you. But the second you threatened to quit, they agreed to kick me out for you. That's how I know they all loved you. Jackie replaced me as the drummer, and the transition was (nearly) seamless. I was shunned from your memories. Except for yours.

I knew you saw what I did because of what happened after the funeral. We were gathered at your house, mourning the death of your brother in silence, hot chocolate clutched in our hands and our eyes drained of emotion. Remember that? You whispered to the quiet of the room, "They'll never find the murderer."

Dave asked why you thought that. "You don't know that. The police are smart," he said, his voice ragged from lack of sleep.

But you shook your head, staring at the floor. "I don't want to know anyway." And you looked up at me, your empty eyes meeting mine. And that's how I know you knew. I'm not sure how you found out, but I could tell you had.

I know you hate me for what I have done. For a long time, you kept the knowledge of my crime inside your mind, and I know it tore you to pieces. Would you have told anyone eventually? You can't now. I took care of that.

You only hate me because you don't see things from my perspective. You saw your brother as kind and supportive, the father figure you needed. You saw him as tough and fierce, but with a strong compassionate heart.

But when I decided to kill someone, when I decided to lash out, I saw your brother. I saw how he acted so dramatic because of what happened with your parents. He just wallowed in attention and fame because of his past. It put shame to you, who was actually suffering. Remember how he claimed to be cutting himself? I saw his wrists. He hadn't been.

So finally I acted. I dragged his death out; it was slow and satisfying. The feeling of a knife thrusting into someone's flesh as their eyes bulge and they screech for mercy... It's a sensation I was instantly hooked on after one stab. Your brother's blood was a beautiful crimson hue, slick and dark, staining his clothing and the floor and my hands. If you had felt the adrenaline, the rush of bliss at the feeling of killing Stephen, and had suffered the sleepless nights and days spent crying that I had when he was alive, you would understand my actions.

And I held his gaze the whole time. At first his eyes were alive with shock and terror. His expression changed to one of fury, and after time, exhaustion swept across his tear stained face. That was when he began to plead for me to stop, asking what he had done. I told him. He screamed and begged, but it was much too late. I was already having too much fun as a killer.

It's a shame you're the one who had to find his mutilated body. I know that must have been difficult. I never wanted to hurt you.

But do you see now, why I was forced to end your life? I didn't intend for you to ever find out I murdered your brother. I didn't intend for you to end up mutilated too. But I couldn't afford for you to come out about what happened. I let you live for months, but my fear that you would confess what you knew was agonizing.

I admit, when I realized I had another victim to kill, I wasn't disappointed.

You were another enjoyable murder. Your hair splayed out on the ground, clumped with blood, your glasses shattered on the ground next to you... It was a thrilling sight. And your shrieks of pain...

I used a different knife on you- serrated, so it tore at your skin.

Maybe the fact that I wrote a letter to my dead victim makes me insane. But I needed to explain things to you, even though you will never read this.

Frisson fell apart- losing me, you, and your brother was too much. Jackie moved away, and we haven't heard from her. She couldn't handle being involved with our mess anymore. The cops are beginning to catch onto what happened. I don't have much time left to be here, and I plan to run away.

It's a shame, what became of such a talented band. Sometimes, I wish everyone knew it was me who committed the murders. I wish they saw what Stephen had done to deserve his fate. I want to see the horror in their eyes, the disgust at all his dramatic little lies. They believe his death is tragic, something to be mourned over. They don't realize that I have only freed the world of a curse.

My story is not over yet. When I escape, my newfound obsession with killing with follow. You and Stephen were not the first. You were merely a foretaste.

There will be many more to follow.

Sincerely,

your killer