Fixation

A girl finds a new hobby

I started with the McHaul family. It was early morning. Mr. McHaul was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee doused in cream and sugar, reading the local paper. He was wearing a blue paisley tie that corresponded perfectly with the blue in his wife’s dress.

Mrs. McHaul was at the stove making blueberry pancakes. It was Sunday, blueberry pancake day. She accidently burnt the first one and decided to throw it out. Kristen McHaul was upstairs getting dressed for church. She had a crush on one of the alter boys so she was spending extra time on her makeup that morning.

I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. McHaul heard me come in the back door. I walked in all stealth like, holding the double bit axe I found in their shed. I killed Mr. McHaul before he even knew I was there. Unsurprisingly, Mrs. McHaul turned around from the stove and let out a raucous shriek. She started racing for the phone in the next room but I managed to slash off her hand before she had the chance to dial 911. The screaming worsened with the loss of her hand, so I knew I had to finish her quickly. I was aiming for her head but somehow missed and sliced her femoral artery. I cut myself some slack since the axe was heavy and it was my first time. Either way, she was dead within three minutes. And I would have a lot of cleaning up to do. I’ll try not to make such a mess next time.

Kristen heard the commotion and rushed down the stairs. As anticipated, she was wearing too much makeup and leggings so tight it would make the priest rethink his whole celibacy thing. I managed to hide behind the wall near the staircase. When she turned the corner, she ran straight into my axe. She wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. I let her body drop to the floor, the axe still wedged in her midsection. Then I took a step back, marveling at my work.

After cleaning up a majority of the blood, I grabbed some blueberry pancakes. Then I sat down in front of the 60inch plasma with Mom, Dad, and Kristen. Dad sat in his Lazy Boy. Mom was on the loveseat and Kristen and I were on the couch.

~

“Thanks Mom. These pancakes are delightful.” “Kristen, you look nice this morning.”

“Hey Dad, can we go to the shooting range after church today?” 

~

The problem with what has now become my Sunday morning ritual is that I am ultimately faced with several problems. Heavy problems. A body is not easy to dispose of. It’s messy and uncooperative but witnesses are even more so and that forces a requirement not to leave any. This, in turn, creates more victims and more problems of disposal. It’s like a self-licking ice cream cone. It would be easier if I gave up the axe but there’s a bit of nostalgia associated with that and every serial killer has a trademark.

Plus, I like the weight of that axe and the sound it makes when it enters flesh. I live for the look of death on my victims’ face knowing that, if even for a little while, I will adopt their life. Hell, they weren’t really using it anyway. I’ve learned not to wear out my welcome. Breakfast, a good conversation, a few twirls in front of their mirror dressed in whatever I find in their closet, a couple of Facebook posts if they’ve been careless enough to leave it open...that’s all I need. For a few moments I am someone else. More importantly, for a few moments I am no longer myself.

I only pick white picket fence neighborhoods. They have those big trash bins with lids that stay open on their own until I’m finished. Trash pick-up is on Monday. That’s just enough time. I’ve cut the handle down on my axe so that it fits neatly into my Camelback along with a pair of gloves, a bone saw, a roll of military duct tape and some heavy ply trash bags.

I’m training for an ultra, you know, and nobody suspects a pretty jogger.