I took number
sixty five to my basement, this time.
This one was a sure howler; best not to attract anyone’s curiosity. Do the job,
and get it out of the way as quick as possible. Somehow I knew she would be my messiest
yet, but that’s what I’d said the last sixty four times. And they always got
messier and messier. The faster you go, the bigger the mess I guess.
“Okay Number-Sixty-Five…” I cooed,
tying her baby-blue scarf around her mouth. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
“My name’s Akisha,” she cried
before she was cut off. I let out a breath as I tied the knot.
“You’re Number-Sixty-Five,” I
corrected. “Now keep still. The longer you stall, the longer it takes for you
to get home.”
Number-Sixty-Five would be the lucky one, I thought, as I fastened the ropes
from the ceiling tighter around her slender olive wrists. Her squeals through
the scarf aimed for my temples but I ignored them.
After the eleventh canvas, it
became easier to ignore them; now I had disregard down to a fine art. I am an
artist after all and always have been; everybody knows that. All my life people
have encouraged me to draw and paint: You’re talented, they said. You could be
the next Pablo, they said. Yes I am a crafter of the imagination, and they
bloody well know I know; they just wouldn’t prefer my method of approach and display.
Otherwise I’d be hanging them by their tender throats with a solid fishhook in
the Auckland Museum and making millions of dollars off my creativity. People
think I want to play around with acrylics and dead trees, but they don’t care
for this stuff like I do. Our country is losing enough land as it is, too much
money being wasted on unnecessary infrastructure and pointless architecture. Too
much money being thrown around by an unethical and homophobic government; and
all of that was because of humanity. I was simply doing a good deed, and
boosting my creativity in the process.
My eyes wandered over the girl; I
was planning on how I could turn her into a great New Zealand masterpiece. Maybe
no one had noticed she had gone missing… that’s what I said the last sixty four
times before their bright little faces appeared on the news, with a narrator
urging “whoever had them to come forward and end the misery of their parents”.
There wasn’t even a pinch of false hope that maybe they had run away; people assumed
right away "even from the first- that someone had taken them. And when the news came, about their “oh-so-horrible
deaths and discovery of bodies” they knew they were right. And now the damn
country was crawling with police and their ravenous mutts.
I wondered how people must have
reacted when they found my first: A young girl of New Lynn, about eight or nine
years old and blonde with blue eyes and with the lips of a puckered nectarine. The
first thing I noticed was those lips when I found her walking along the street
and offered her a ride. Not one of them could resist my motherly instincts and
the small pink teddy bear I had hanging up by my rear view mirror.
When I had her at my house, I awakened her from
her “sleep” by pouring a huge bucket of paint-stripper onto her bare body. She couldn’t
open her eyes to see me anyway, because I had slathered a thick layer of
super-glue across her eyelashes after I knocked her unconscious. In the panic,
I hacked her lips off with a Swiss-army knife and pulled her teeth out
individually with a pair of pliers. Then I sat her cold limp body on a swing at
the park at three in the morning and returned home. The place was crawling with
police and the media by seven a.m.
I still had her lips in a Ziplock bag in the freezer, ironic as it is. And the
news on the telly that day…wow. After the first ten, I was dubbed by media “The
Grim Raper” because all of them had had their genitals mutilated. I chuckled as
the memory faded, and I returned to reality.
Number-Sixty-Five mumbled a plea against her gag. Again I ignored her urgent
cry, narrowing my eyes with focus.
She shouldn’t have been wandering the gala on her own anyway. What; were my
headlines so far not a good enough warning for her and her parents? There was
great ignorance in this world, and it fed my appetite nicely. No one would be
looking for a middle-aged woman to suit their psychopathic profile.
“Shut up and stop crying,” I said gently.
“Don’t dally now.”
The ropes were tight enough now; she could barely move her arms at all. And her
legs tied together at the ankles beneath her wiggled from side to side
helplessly. Her jeans were near spotless, despite the struggling it took to get
her into my car.
I had lured her to the Ford Anglia I borrowed from a friend (people would think
it was in a creepy old man’s possession) by deliberately dropping an armful of
bought goods and asking her to help me carry them back. Despite the news
lately, she didn’t hesitate at all to leave her parents who were busy poring
over a handicraft display near the entrance.
When we got to the car park at the back
I tried to usher her into the car, claiming I had lost my way. She smelt
something suspicious and refused, tried to run off. I had then grabbed her by
the arm and knocked her upside the head with a can of petrol until she finally
slumped forward and allowed me to continue my task of laying her discreetly
across the back seat and bringing her to her fate. That is why I chose children; they’re easier
to handle. But the only problem is the toughness of their flesh and
determination to escape and return to their happy little homes. That is why, well,
I knock them cold before feeding the appetite of my muse.
I reached forward to begin
unbuttoning her jeans and her bloodcurdling scream ripped through the scarf. I
tilted my head away from her with annoyance.
“Don’t cry,” I said. “Keep; and
you’ll be all right.” She protested again, tears mocking me with their escape.
“Look; I can’t weave my magic while
you’re still clothed.”
I then realized I wouldn’t get the jeans past the rope so I left her to get the
pair of long steel scissors from the shelf behind me. As I turned my back, I
heard her frantically fumbling against her restraints. Sometimes it was fun to
prolong the task of fetching something, just to give them a taste of what it
would be like to escape. But as usual, they never did taste the real thing.
Time is money, and time is short. I wouldn’t go through the risks I did for
nothing, after all.
Maybe I could untie her ankles and get her legs tied apart, so I could carve a
scissor handle on each of her hip. I could flay her of the skin on her legs so
that my clue would scream out against the naked eye.
I should cut a sliver of meat from her chest into the shape of New
Zealand! That might put a good point across. Then I could add her to the many
works in my cellar, or even displayed publicly, and maybe one day I would meet
a nice woman who would appreciate the same art as I.
I approached her with the
scissors, aiming the point at her chest as I came closer. Her brown eyes
widened; oh yes, she saw what I could do with them. As expected, her cheeks
were glowing tell-tale ponds. I sighed.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said calmly,
dropping to a squat so that I could untie her ankles and re-adjust her legs to
an open position.
“I feel a muse coming on,” I
continued, unraveling the knotted rope from her ankles.
She was quick; her sneaker nearly connected with my jaw before I ducked swiftly
to the side and stood. The heavy rope shook in my hand, and without warning I
flung its loop across her cheek. The tears squirted out with such great force her
eyelids shook and her face reddened.
“Don’t,” I said firmly. “You little
f*****g s**t!”
To prove a point, I withdrew the Swiss-army knife from my pocket and held it up
to her face. Its blade was still burgundy-dipped with my last composition's fluids.
“A kick to my face will not compare
to me scooping your pretty little eyes out,” I whispered. “Now, stay still.”
She wriggled more than I had seen all day. Her body which hung like a pig in a
butcher, swung from side to side; frantically trying to discharge herself from
my grasp. She shook her head with the effort, trying to free her mouth from the
scarf.
“Stop
moving,” I said firmly, tying her ankles to the iron handles in the floor
and guiding the scissor blades into the waistline of her jeans. “Don’t move, or
I’ll accidentally cut you. Is that what
you want?”
Now she was speaking a different language through thick polyester. I ignored
her, and began to cut down her thigh; exposing her toffee skin further and
further. I made sure I didn’t pierce her through the process.
My mind wandered: Miss Riddell, my
art teacher from high school always said I had good control with my hands. I
had to agree with her at this point; the girl was thrashing like a fish out of
water and I had removed her jeans and underwear successfully, leaving behind
only a light pink scratch above her left thigh which would fade in seconds.
“You’re
lucky,” I said, standing to examine her figure. “A small scratch, but it will…“
The scarf fell loose. Before I could react, she let out a terrified yet hopeful
wail:
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! HELP!” she screamed to the top of her
lungs. I exhaled a breath of air and stepped back to enjoy her pleasure my ears.
The screams… they were one of the best parts of the job. My smirk faded. Unless
we were in the middle of nowhere, no one could hear her screaming!
I waited for her to take another breath in for a second shot at victory
before I stepped forward and landed my palm harshly across her face. With the
force, black spots began dotting the centre of my vision. I tried my best to
ignore them, but my head was swimming with fuel; I could feel my body shaking with
it but I wasn’t quite there in the room with anymore.
After a few seconds, the head rush passed.
My breathing slowed to a normal pace. I used this time to tie the scarf firmly
once again around her mouth. I tied it so tight that her cheek fat threatened
to override the top of the cotton.
“If you do that again, the scarf will be
around your neck instead.”
The girl’s cries died down to a defeated and gentle sob. I ran a hand through
my hair, then reached into the back pocket of my jeans and withdrew what I like
to call my paintbrush: a clean silver chisel, with a blonde-wood handle. As I
was examining it closely, the black spots in front of me returned. I can’t
believe I made a risk like that; I can’t believe I let her yell.
What if someone heard her?
Surely not… the neighbours would be at work by now, wouldn’t they? To be sure, I glanced at my wristwatch: four-twenty.
They’ll be returning from work by now; and I can’t let go of this inspiration. What
if there were witnesses close by? S**t…
Slipping out again… must ignore…. don’t
let the white in. If the white comes, it’s all over.
Before I knew it the perimeter of the black circles began leaking outwards
white. F**k…now I can’t control it anymore…
“I told you to shut up,” I whispered, coming toward her. Everything felt like a
dream; my voice felt miles away as did my senses. Her wince was a whirlpool of
colours. “Now I’m going to have to…”
I picked up the scissors and cut her jersey and singlet off. Then I drove the
scissors toward me slowly then out.
I stabbed her for a total of what felt like twenty times in the stomach, chest
and hip.
I am following my dream, that’s all I’m
doing. Following my dream, as my parents and teachers advised me to.
As I was kneeling and examining her stomach in front of me, my mind wandered
again:
________________
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