I wonder what she sleeps in
Now that I am home again, I am making my plans for a quiet weekend with my latest victim in waiting. At least I hope it is a quiet weekend. An interruption would be terrible. I am not sure where she lives, but a little bird told me she definitely lives in an apartment. I followed her to work and waited to see what she did there, called later to get the name of the receptionist for an appointment confirmation, and then looked her up on twitter and followed her some more. A lot more. She updates that thing every ten minutes. I know she spends most weekends watching various reality shows and planning her lovely little wedding, which is coming up in June. I know all kinds of random bits of information thanks to the insane number of microblogs she has posted. Every time my phone notified me of yet another stupid update, I pictured carving large holes in her beautiful face. Hammering a collection of bottle caps from all my favorite beers into her forehead as the smell of hot, wet rubber from her gag carries its way to my senses and gets me fired up for whatever comes next. Yeah, time to get creative on this one. Tweet that, you self inflated mess.
So anyway, she has neighbors. Every reference to her place in her updates said “my apartment” and never “my house”. That makes it easier to plan, but I have no idea what the layout is like. I will follow her home after work tomorrow, size the place up like the veteran prowler that I am, and drop in on the girl while she sleeps. Then the art begins. I try to never unfold the session the same way, letting inspiration strike me and repeating only my favorite rituals as I bleed whatever is in front of me, but I do have some openings I cant resist repeating. For instance, I like to turn up the thermostat, stand by the bed, and wait till the place gets so hot they kick off the blankets unconsciously. Sexy girls wear sexy things to bed, and I like to watch them writhe around wearing barely a thing as the temperature quickly gets uncomfortable, just like their life is about to once they wake. It doesn’t always work, but when it does it beats any erotic moment I have ever had. Sometimes, when I am kneeling beside them, I can watch the first drop of perspiration run slowly across their skin. You have no idea how sexy that is. Well, maybe you do. Its what I do later, replacing beads of sweat with blood, that makes me so hard to understand.
You think a crazy person would be less articulate, right? Less open. Unable to connect with you on any level because you know better. Any REAL murderer couldn’t get next to you and make you smile, right? I couldn’t make you laugh as I buy you a shot and “accidentally” kiss your cheek as you lean over to pick up your glass. I couldn’t make it sound like the best idea in the world to sit together at a diner if we are both there eating alone. I would never be able to convince you to have a cup of coffee with me even after we both visit the same art gallery every Sunday for weeks. You are smarter than that. Except for you, girl I bought a shot for last night. And you, lovely pale skinned hottie at the museum every Sunday for the last four months. You loved that comment I made about Duchamp. There is no way I could want to rip your skin from off your bones because I know a thing or two about art, right? I’m not complaining. I like it this way, I could not imagine how hard my work would be if my victims were any less easy to manipulate.
Have a nice Samhain tomorrow. I know I will. I look forward to it every year. One day those ghosts and gouls will rise up just like the celts said, but it wont be for just one night. There won’t be any candy, either, but you better believe it will be bad for your teeth. I just hope it comes in my lifetime. I would be proud to be a part of that administration.
