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He hadn’t grown up knowing he would murder another person, let alone several, but he had. Hadn’t everybody considered doing it? Only he had actually done it, and now it was all that consumed him. The small voice in his head grew louder with every passing day, soothing his worries and prodding him forwards.
It wasn’t as grisly as the movies made out. There was blood, of course, but it hadn’t been the stomach-curdling event that he thought it would be. Blind rage would do that for you. Or maybe he was just different, unaffected.
Thinking back to the moment when it first came down to it, he knew it was meant to be. He understood that as he took in the artistry of his creation, but it wasn’t quite right. He was still working on that part. Funny, how it had just come to him like that. Just a flicker of a memory and he had the perfect accessory.
It was 9:04. A.M. when it happened; he knew that because he had looked at his watch just seconds before she had started. He just wanted to read the newspaper, but her voice shrieking across the room like a drunken banshee had grated on him. It went through him like nails down a chalkboard. He cocked his head at her and right then, in that precise moment, he knew he would kill her. He knew it like he knew the sky was blue and grass was green. It was that simple.
In the background he could hear the faint echoes of a Whitney Houston song playing on the radio. Remnants of snow lingered outside through the cracked window pane. Winter had come late this year. He felt the hard, wooden floor beneath his feet, threadbare carpets doing little to cushion his steps. When he looked at her again, it wasn’t her face that gawped back at him, reminding him why it was that she preferred his absence. She had friends coming over; she didn’t want him hanging around tonight. The same excuses. It used to be because he was too young; now it was because he was too old.
He moved with such speed that she didn’t even register the change in him. Too busy with her own selfish need to enjoy the pleasures in life to be concerned with him, and that was when he knew why he would kill her: because she reminded him of her. His mother.
His fist was first to react. A direct hit between the eyes, smashing the bridge of her nose in a bone-crunching blow. She staggered, but the bitch held firm, numb from the booze and drugs that consumed her. Her expression at first was quizzical when he grabbed her by the throat. As he began to squeeze, then she knew. He saw the fear within her. Her eyes bulging, his grip tightening.
“It’s all your fault,” he hissed, spittle bathing her face as he pulled her closer to him. “You and your filthy, vile and disgusting lifestyle-” His grip loosened a little. He would take his time. Anger was pushing him onwards, but hate would make this worthwhile. “-without you and him,” he snarled at the thought of his father. “Without you both, she would still be here.”
“Please, baby don’t. Come on, I’ll do anything.” Her voice was scratchy as she gasped for every breath, to no avail. He remembered pleading similarly as a child not to be sent away; to no avail either. “Anything you want,” she tugged at her top, showing him her tits; he liked her tits. He let go of her throat then and for a second she thought maybe, it would be okay. Until he slapped her. His palm hard against her cheek.
“You made her do it.” His fingers wrapped around her scrawny neck once more. She had no idea what he was talking about as she clawed at his arms. His face contorted with a mix of rage and sadness, his eyes brimming with tears. “Because of you, she did it,” he half-whispered, half-sobbed as his fingers gripped tighter.
The blackness came for her, as she knew it would. Her entire life she had lived with the blackness, the dark side of existence engulfing her before she had even had a chance at life. She had never thought it would come from someone like him though. He had adored her, fucked her because he wanted to, not because he was paying, though there were times he had paid for something more ‘special.’ There were many times under a man that she considered how her life would end. While they paid to thrust into her, she would take her mind elsewhere. Her thoughts would start off light: the idea of escaping it all, the addictions and the lifestyle that came with them, but eventually her thoughts would move towards the end. Her death would be lonely. Forgotten easily.
Afterwards, when he was finished with her, when she was displayed just the way he wanted her, he set about finishing the work.
The doll would be a reminder when they eventually found her.