1.) I am a killer. And I love every second of it.
2.) I don’t know who or what I really am because-
3.) the men called The Masters rule my life and give me money so I can survive, and so I can buy goggles.
4.) If you tell anyone about what I’m confiding here, I’ll find you.
5.) I have a teddy bear named Mr. Squiggles that has some good ideas, though he usually isn’t much of a talker; and I have a boyfriend named Lucas that I keep for the sake of having someone that thinks I’m, well, normal.
The police have several people they think I am. The news reporters have several names for me. The best was when this reporter chick referred to me as “The affliction plaguing our city.” I became partial to her pet name for me. Behold, the Affliction Chronicles.
Someone has to keep my legacy around, don’t they?
I plan to document it with you.
Sometimes, when I’m sitting and wondering about my past, I get a lot of mixed messages. For instance, my last memory was that I used to be a Russian ballerina. Now, I don’t know if you’ve seen me, but I don’t exactly fit the criteria for foreign dancer.
Though I will admit, I gave myself the chance and bought a black lace tutu. I’ve had no other ballet memories, so apparently this was just another implant the Masters have given me.
Something I do remember clearly, and the same way each time, is how I met my Lucas. I mean, I don’t love him. I can’t. There isn’t any emotion inside of me except some little spark when the light leaves the eyes of one of my toys. But I’m sure if I could fall in love with a human, it’d be Lucas.
He was sitting on the bench outside of my favorite store -- Von Goth -- with earplugs that caught my eye.
Now, I was about to go in and buy some new goggles when I noticed this creature. Typically, I didn’t give males the time of day unless they were strapped down in my basement bleeding profusely. But Lucas looked up at me, smiled, and said “Nice goggles.”
We’ve been together ever since.
“Where…Where am I?”
Whoops. I forgot she was here. Damned cheerleaders always start screaming right about…
“HELP! Hey, where am I? Can you HELP me?” she screeches. I know someone’s going to lose some vocal chords if she doesn’t pipe down.
I turn to her with a smile, “Of course I can help you, my precious. I can Hurt Electrocute Lacerate and cause you enormous amounts of Pain, if you’d like. You know -- H.E.L.P you. Though I had other things in mind.”
Awe, look. She’s whimpering. “You brought me here.”
“Not so stupid after all, are you?” I say, picking up a syringe. “You see, cheer-baby, you have been very vain, and I don’t like that much. You’re far too pretty for your own good -- it’s made you sick in the head.”
“Please…I’ve never done anything to you.” she begs. She looks far too much like Bubbles. I hate her. That’s enough reason for me to kill her.
“That’s what they always say.” I inject the syringe into her spine. Poor thing, stretched out on her belly screaming. Eh. She’ll quiet up as soon as the morphine kicks in.
By the time I’m done filleting her face, I’m bored with her and rest my knife in her neck. She convulses, pretty blue eyes batting, and finally rests. I take my time carving her current status into her forehead.
While washing my hands off in the sink, I have to wonder -- why do I do what I do? I mean, not a lot of normal twenty-three year old girls run amuck killing people and get away with it. Why do I?
Mr. Squiggles, my prime advisor and teddy bear, has informed me not to worry, that I am the creation of the Masters, and that my origins are not important. I’ve always wanted to know more but haven’t bothered to ask anything else. I’m privileged to hear Mr. Squiggles advice when he offers it. I shouldn’t get greedy.
The corpse is beginning to stink up the place. I need to get her in the fridge until my date with Lucas is over tonight. He’ll be here soon.
So, I stuff Cindy Screams-A lot into the freezer and lock the basement door behind me. If I ever meet the Masters, I’ll have to thank them for the fantastic work space they provided. When I woke up in this house, lying on the very table I’d just killed that cheer-whore on, I found the lovely sound proof basement filled with supplies. And Mr. Squiggles, of course, with a note pinned to his chest:
From there, Mr. Squiggles told me of the Masters.
Which leads to where I am today; changing into my bondage pants, combat boots, and corset before Lucas comes over. A little makeup, a fresh pair of goggles, and a sprits of body spray later and I’m ready to pretend I’m relatively normal. Ha, me? I’ve never killed a person in my life.
Pfft. Yeah, right.
There’s a knocking at the door. Guess who that is.
“Hey.” I say as I open the door. Lucas looks perfectly delectable, as usual. I’d enjoy killing him if I ever decided to. I’d savor it, though I’d probably numb him up some. He’s bought me enough goggles that he has earned a painless death.
“Hey” Lucas embraces me, kissing my cheek lightly. “Are you ready?”
“Very. I’m starved.”
Lucas is about graduate from college with a degree in psychology. Can we see the problem here? You and I both know he should notice my peculiarity. Occasionally I wonder, like now, over dinner (Italian -- yum) if Lucas is a member of the Masters, given to me so I have a companion that I don’t have to have any emotional ties to.
Not that I need a companion aside from Mr. Squiggles. I faired well for quite a while without Lucas in my life. I maintained a routine of simplicity. I’d hunt by day, stalking out someone I was sure on the List, and then I’d collect my new pet at night. Sometimes I’d mix it up, but usually I didn’t bother. Simplicity was the key.
Lucas can tell I’m thinking about something because I’m twirling my spaghetti around versus actually eating it. I smile at him. “It was a little hot.” I say and take a bite. I impress myself sometimes with how perfectly normal I can be. Lucas seems to accept my reaction and returns the smile. “So, how was college?”
“Pretty good. We were studying some of the finer points of paranoid schizophrenia…” as he talks, I drift off on that subject. I’ve read the books, I know what all of this is. I’ve considered whether or not I am actually schizophrenic or not. But the evidence is against it. I think I’m perfectly sane. It’s all you other freaks that have the problems…
“But enough about my day,” Lucas says, placing his hand on mine, “how was yours?”
Smile. “Pretty typical.”
Lucas kisses me goodnight on my porch. Once he’s in his car, I unlock the front door, slip inside, and head down the stairs. I need to load up my broken dolly in the sled so I can haul her out to my truck and out to the lake in the middle of town. I have the police scanner in my truck, plus I’ve memorized their patterns. No one will be there when I am. They’ll find my princess in the morning, and they’ll blame my stereotyped alter ego -- the 20 to 30 year old Caucasian male with a history of violence. Ha. If only they knew it was little ol’ me.
I park my truck on the gravel road next to the lake and drag my prize out of the bed, tugging her body along behind me until I finally reach the water. It pleases me to think about all the bodies I’ve dumped here. I toss my cheerleader in, letting her join the rest of the family.
I get back in my truck and drive home, grateful to have another day successfully executed -- no pun intended.
Let’s just hope tomorrow works out as well.
+ Juliet +