A Flash Fiction Story
All Rights Reserved Copyright 2019
I stand here over the most recent kill. The body that lay before me is perfectly sliced, cut, dissected, it is a masterpiece. So different from my first kill.
Blood, there was so much blood. I am so screwed. Was the only thought that ran through my head once I came down from the high of taking this person off the street and cutting them, bleeding them, until their heart stopped pumping, as I could feel and see the life leave their eyes; those once bright blue eyes, where now clouded over in death, the bright blue now nothing but hazy gray.
I hadn’t planned to do my first kill that day. I had been working myself up to it. It was an obsession. The want to cut, to hurt, to take a life. The only rush that could come close was sex, and even that was called ‘the little death’, the body seeming to shut down just for that moment that one gains completion.
She just called to me, the long legs, the blue yes, and the blonde hair. So typical, but so drawing, and young, so, so young and I wanted to cut that life short, to be the fates and cut her thread.
I grabbed her, I pulled her into an alley that was in the bad part of town, and taped her mouth shut. And slowly tortured her. A cut there, a cut there, a slice, so shallow and painful, until I sliced opened her chest to see if I could see her beating heart, and I watched the life leave from her eyes. I gained euphoria at that moment, and I knew I would chase the high until my death.
When I came down from my high, I burned her. I burned everything. Nobody ever suspected me, and I kept an eye on the news, they didn’t find her body for three weeks, and then it was a homeless man who found her bones, he just so happened was trying to find a place to lay down. And that was my first kill.
Now, fifteen years later, I am looking down at my most recent, the plastic up, and the clean up a breeze. I clean the body after the blood had been completely drained. She would find her final resting place wherever I felt like dumping her. I started marking the bodies, with a signature and their number. I cut 179 into her forehead as well as my signature mark; I cut into her skin a V with slices coming from it, like broken bloody wings. They call me the Angel of Death. Fitting.
I know one day I will be caught. It is bound to happen. But for now I am the most prolific modern serial killer, and nobody would ever suspect me. After all, who would suspect the local preacher was a serial killer? So I leave the body and remove the disposable overalls, and straighten my suit, I have a service to perform, the funeral for my victim before her, number 178. I smirk mentally as I move upstairs and great the family, the family that will never know how I was the last to hear the sweet screams of their precious daughter.
“I am so sorry for your loss.” I state as I shook the man’s hand. All the while, reflecting upon the changes I have gone through in the last fifteen years. How I have evolved into a perfect serial killer, all while gaining the trust of the whole community.
My wife, my blonde haired, blue eyed wife, came to my side and hugged the grieving mother. I am not sure what made her different, my wife, why I didn’t kill her when I first saw her. But I didn’t. Maybe change comes in many different forms. For in the last fifteen years, I have gone through many changes…