People think they like me, but they don’t. Every interaction is a different mask, a carefully crafted facade.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡO2oPkD5sVc
When I was young, my father would go on long rants. I heard endless monologues about morals, politics, people he didn’t like.
He didn’t appreciate it when my mind wandered, not one bit. I still get tense when people move too quickly around me.
I learned how to carry two conversations in my mind at once. I was in my own world, but whenever he asked if I was paying attention I was able to repeat back what was said word for word.
It’s a handy tool to have, as a serial killer.
Today I adorn my favorite mask. ‘The Charmer.’
I park outside the school where she works and wait outside to open her door. “Such a gentleman,” She coos. “You remind me of some of my students. Such sweet boys.”
I smile, thinking how perfectly she’ll fit in the trunk of my car.
Today we get coffee. She orders a latte, I get it black. I stir sugar packets into my mug and watch them dissolve as she chatters. On and on.
She’s the perfect victim. Moderately attractive, but insecure and desperate for attention. She told me where she works and half her life story on the first date.
At least I won’t have to wait to get my fix much longer. I smile politely as I sip.
Not enough sugar.
After our date we share a cigarette in the parking lot. She yaps about her rescue dog while I do some mental math. I figure I can deal with the remains within the afternoon if I’m diligent.
I convince her to extend the date and come over to mine. “You’re naughty.” She flutters her eyelashes, attempting to flirt.
I smile and wink. How she disgusts me.
When we arrive at the shed she starts getting wary. By the time she is aware of the danger the chloroform rag has done its work.
She wakes up with me standing over her, yearbook in hand. I’m casually flipping through the pages, whistling. This is my favorite part.
“What are you doing?” She groans. “What is that?”
“Don’t you recognize it?” I flip the book to show her the cover. “It’s got lots of pictures of your students, or, rather,” I toss the book and it lands with a thud. I kneel down to meet her eyes. “Your victims.”
She denies it for a while. Then she starts making justifications. Eventually she begins to cry, deep shuddering gasps. “I, I’m not a bad person. I was in love with those young men!”
I feel no pity. “They weren’t ’young men’, you fucking monster. They were kids.”
She wails as I choose my tools. I waltz to the sound of my favorite song.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ824gW4pcsT
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