It’s hard to tell what’s what in blacklight. I’ve since lost the guy I arrived with, but that’s alright because she’s with me and we’re talking like we’ve known each other throughout undergrad. She seems to have her own little backstory, motivations and all, but I’m not that person that’ll need to know, much less care. I’m acting drunk while she’s getting drunk and I’m saying, “Dressed to impress!” when she looks at me with her hazy, batty eyes, and then the witty tilt of her head and the slinging back of yet another gulp of whatever she’s drinking.
If parties are this predictable, imagine how predictable people must be.
I’m being super nice to her and she’s talking in the third person, which you’d think would make it easier to remember her name. Her name’s irrelevant; I’m finding her suitable and that’s all that really matters.
And I’m saying something like, “You know, these parties are basically the only way people these days can face off and compare each other’s worth!” I shout over the music, but she’s hearing something else entirely. She’s responding with something like, “I can’t get enough,” which makes me think that she probably misheard what I said as, “You know, these parties are basically the only way people these days fuck off and compare each other’s size.”
On second thought, I’m thinking no.
I’m wondering if anyone here’s aware of how close a killer can be to them, but with the way they are acting, there’s nothing in them to suggest they could save themselves, much less anyone else. It’s just another party, but for most of the students in attendance, it’s seemingly enough of a reason for them to drink until it all comes back up.
Anything to break the monotony of class, cram session, repeat.
Peoples’ teeth glow a decadent ghastly grin and while I’m expecting everyone to peer into the grins as good natured, I’m finding myself staring through to the grimness within. Their clothes are luminescent enough to give you a headache.
I’m looking down at my clothes and they’re barely glowing. I feel like I’m going to be pulled into the negative black space because there’s so much white.
Under blacklight everybody looks the same. I’m the only one that looks different.
The gimmick of the night turns everybody wearing white into a ghost and they’re all smiling, their eyes missing, and I’m beginning to see the change in people.
They’re well on their way to being lost.
I’m pulling a name from the early twenties, one that I only heard about from him, and I’m asking Miss Number 28, “Have you seen Jessie?”
And she’s asking me to speak up because she can’t hear me.
I ask her again, “Jessie—have you seen her?”
She’s shrugging, saying she doesn’t know.
“Maybe?”
She’s drunker than I expected. I watch her fall to the floor; people should be laughing but we’re not in high school anymore and no one notices and no one really cares.
By now the party is getting good.
Miss Number 28 is about done and I’m preparing my excuse to leave the party early.
It’s getting bright in the center of the room, a mashing of white shirts moving, blending, and changing shape.
I’m in the negative space where a great observer is able to watch, search, and find.
I’m relaxing and taking my time. I’ve already found her; she isn’t leaving my side.
We’re sitting near a cluster of chairs. She’s got her head on my shoulder and she’s saying, over and over again, “What shitty beer.”
“I’ve good stuff at my place.”
And she’s asking me, “What kind of stuff?”
“The good stuff.”
Mystery works wonders.
I’m watching everyone in their white shirts trying to make up for the lack of fight and inner spirit, and I’m pretending to judge them, but I don’t care about any of these people.
They have no faces.
The faceless start drawing on themselves. I’m leaning forward like I’m home watching a movie. I’m the interested viewer trying to figure out what’s being written. I can’t make out what they’re writing. They keep moving. They keep drawing.
And I keep trying.
Now Miss Number 28 is giving up and getting used to the idea of a quieter place to drink, and I’m implying that I have more than just booze. And then I’m pretending I knew what kind of party this was all along when really I didn’t, not until they all start writing the same thing on their shirts:
“I’m going to die.”
And I’m nodding and I’m sort of happy they figured it out because, of course, they’re going to die. Everyone’s got a killer inside but only a few are capable of murder.
It’s all based on the fight and whether or not they can let it surface.
Miss Number 28 is saying, “I’m sobering up.”
And I’m saying, “Wanna go?”
“Yeah.”
And just as well. If a normal university party is red hot, a death party is as blue as the blacklight used to reveal their invisible statements.
I’m going to die.
I’m going to die.
I’m going to die.
I’m texting him details as well as what he should do, how he should get ready, and how long it’ll take for her to agree to a threesome.
When we’re all naked and she’s floating between consciousness and coma, I’ll just sit there, watching him take her like a true gentleman. For a fuck or two they’ll be just like new lovers, exploring the taste and touch of each other’s private spaces, but then he’ll kiss her where he kisses them all, every number before her, and she’ll giggle.
She always giggles.
And I’ll giggle too, but only because I know what’ll happen next. I’ll comment here or there, but mostly I’ll just observe.
I’m into letting things fall into place before I factor myself into the evolution of each step. He’s as excitable as he’s ever been and Miss Number 28, I can tell, he completely approves.
I’m commenting, “Do whatever it is you feel like doing. I want to see her inside-out.”
I want to see what’s inside her. But it’s never what you expect. You expect to see something else, something more interesting, more complex, and multi-faceted, when you see through the practiced social demeanor, but in the end we’ll get to see her organs, her insides, and the source of her sexual stench, but little else.
He’s a believer and I’m a great observer and we both know we need to keep looking. If not twenty-eight then twenty-nine. . .
There’s always another.
Before Miss number 28 can wake up, she’s passed on and he’s showing me what he’s got and I’m impressed. He’s talented, got a real fire inside.
I’m thinking he’s the best yet and that he’ll be here to stay.
I’m so impressed I’m believing it, and every time he looks up at me, I’m staring back, knowing that he’s starting to get used to me, his support structure.
I see more fire and more fight the deeper I look. He’s a city partially explored. I want to dig up the catacombs. I want to meet number seventy and number eighty.
I’m going to be there to meet the one that preaches his story and I’ll be the genius that successfully profiles him.
“You need to talk to me. You need to hear my voice,” is what I’m saying when he grips the cartilage near her nose, looking up at me. I’m sure he can’t help it, asking for my approval.
I’m saying to him that he’s doing well; I’m saying that I’m impressed, but I don’t say too much. I leave him curious about what it takes to satisfy me.
The more I think about it, the more I realize there’s no way to satisfy me.
Too much of me is a battlefield, a city in demise. I’ve never been fully repaired. He looks at me like I look at anyone else, but I’m seeing something beyond his gaze. I’m noticing it now more than ever.
Tonight is the night I reappear with someon
e he would never have found without my help.
Twenty-eight is purer than all twenty-seven combined.
I see what he sees right as he finishes with them.
I see fear.
I’m ecstatic, pure delight.
If it’s true, he’ll do well to satisfy me, his most important master, for the killing period to come. If he wants my continued support, he’ll do his damnedest to satisfy me and let me change him. Let me in. Fully.
Lend me your everything, my pet.
Lend me it all. Let yourself be mine like I know you already have.
Tonight you’ve taken your twenty-eighth while I’ve found myself a new fixation.
The pet to fully please me.
3.
It’s a mystery no one ever fights back.
It’s a scene that jumps from one scene to another. Jump shot, sighting her with the man of mystery. Quick, rapid flashes of her holding hands with the man. The mystery peeling out of the apartment complex. Audience gets first glimpse of what the man might look like.
Jump shot of the stretcher. Outline of the victim’s face.
Return to this shot twice while audience sees extended shots of the mystery unfolding somewhere nearby. See her in the front passenger seat. See the mystery treating her perfectly. Hear the sound of nervous heartbeats as she leaves the lounge with the man. Heartbeats starting to slow down as she falls asleep in the passenger seat.
Where is he taking her? Where is the mystery going?
Heartbeats rise up until everything else is inaudible. The audience hears one last heartbeat skipping and then the sound of a door locking.
The mystery is right outside an apartment complex—location unknown—during some early hour of the night. The parking lot is overrun by emergency vehicles and police squad cars. Bystanders trickle out from the bottom floors. People collect in the streets, hoping for a better view. A body is rolled out on a stretcher, covered by a sheet. The audience is left guessing.
Gain no confidence from such a spectacle.
Who just died? What is the audience looking at?
Zoom in on the stretcher. Hear comments from the officers standing around making sure no bystanders interfere with the crime scene.
—Young one.
—Questioned a sample. No one noticed anything.
—Where’d they find the body?
—One of the bedrooms.
—There’s always a dozen or more people crammed into the place.
—Place is a real dive. Have you taken a look at the bathroom?
—It’s where we found the victim’s stomach.
In her last conscious gasps, she felt that warmth.
The body left behind is warm before growing cold.
Who sleeps in your bed besides shame and sadness?
1.
For the first time but certainly not the last—
I skipped class.
My absence would have been noticeable.
Would have counted against me.
But the real world is on my side.
Measuring up every insertion and assertion in terms of what I see.
Soft conditioning.
The support of a pet and perilous cause.
I skipped class.
Knowing I would learn more by not going.
Learn more by doing.
Learn more by being.
2.
I’m discovering he’s not much of a talker. Everything’s practiced until he’s out of memorized and rehearsed material. He’s awkward at his most pure, and he’s incapable of matching my gaze when I’m still there, looking for more. He’s without another quirky and/or confident line to dispense, so there’s this awkward atmosphere billowing into the apartment, tempting to ruin what I’ve established. So I’m telling him to go into his room, not mine, to start on the footage of number twenty-eight hoping to figure out how number twenty-nine was such a problem. He has to learn somehow.
Done it so many times before, but when it came to her, we had to ditch her because he picked up the wrong kind of victim. She was a half-hearted pain in the ass. I thought he had better sense, higher standards, but there he is, on-camera, taking in another drunk, lonely freshman college chick.
He’s returning from his room with the laptop I supplied. He sits next to me at the kitchen table. I’m saying, “I’ll show you where you’re wrong.”
He replies, “How do you know all this?”
But I’m not saying anything and he’s answering for me, “You’ve done this before.”
I’m starting up the video software.
He’s staring at my screen. With no direction, he focuses in on the one thing that so effortlessly demands a person’s attention, the computer screen.
I’m telling him, “Follow the leader.”
And so he’s opening his video software too, going through every step to match mine.
We watch what became of her.
I’m saying, “First of all, did you not see how she was walking and talking?”
He’s not going to say anything.
“Look at her. With a face and body like that, you have little to work with.”
I’m letting the recorded footage play until I stop on the last moment, right when she began to leave her body for death.
“Okay, look at how long it took for the dosage to kick in. Eleven seconds. Not a big deal for us, but it’s a red-flag for anyone that knows about quality.”
He’s listening, making sure to pause on the same timestamp as me, failing to do so, starting, rewinding, and stopping and trying once, twice, a third time, until I raise my voice tell him to stop.
“She’s built up a resistance and that’s enough to notice how little she’s worth.”
He’s staring at his laptop screen, wide eyed, noticeably intimidated.
The way he looks right now, he’s not the slicked back hair, confident and completely smooth gentleman I picked up maybe a week or two ago. He’s my pet, and I’ve pulled every single protective layer from his exterior leaving only the paleness, the shame, the hidden core, the frontline of fight.
I’m saying, “Do you understand?”
He’s hesitating.
I’m forcing a reply.
He’s replying, “Yes, yes, I understand.”
I fast forward to the first lacerations. I’m telling him he could be a little slower, a lot more precise, with each incision, because you have to treat the body with surgical precision in order to really enjoy it.
I’m criticizing his methods as something akin to a binge-eater or batch-a-fuck sleaze, taking in mounds of food, fucking large groups of nobodies, in order to escape what is hidden inside. I’m noticing how he’s not liking the position he’s in, so I’m reminding him:
“You remember the rules. You can’t afford to be confident.”
Let it sink in.
He watches the video of himself cutting her deep—so deep the blood doesn’t spew. It escapes and forms a pool up to his forearms. He’s pushing through instead of controlling the blood. I’m shaking my head, and he’s noticing, but this time I didn’t mean for him to see.
I’m telling him to fast forward. “We’ve seen enough,” and then we’re watching the end where he discovers he’s cut her too deep, ruining the organs underneath.
This is where I’m telling him if he wants to really transcend simple serial killer, he’s going to have to increase his skill enough to baffle the people in forensics.
“Like any other person, you have to affect them to the core, so deep they won’t be the same person ever again. The reason you’re such a catch is because you can’t be caught. You’re doing all the catching. You have to change every little bit about them. If you don’t, you’re just another cry for publicity. Killing isn’t enough anymore. . .”
We take a moment to fully absorb what I’ve said. Even I’m taking a moment to really comprehend it and comprehend it fully. I’m agreeing with myself and he’s agreeing too.
And he’s tal
king about choosing better next time and I’m shaking my head, “No—you work on the bodies, changing the person inside and out. I’ll work on finding her. You no longer have to worry about ever leaving this apartment. The cage is yours; the room is yours. I’ll bring you everything you want and need.”
He doesn’t seem to react to this.
Is this a good thing or a bad thing?
We’re listening to the steady patter of rain on the balcony outside.
It feels like late night but it’s noon on a Wednesday.
Uncertain until he gives in. He’s nodding and I can’t help myself, telling him to take his laptop, sign into our 1-on-1 password protected chat room and get started.
I’m telling him, “I’ll be right with you.”
Talking craft turns me on and I want to see more of him. He’s going to have to see more of me. He does what he’s told, door closing gently. He’s in his room and I’m walking into mine, stopping at the mirror for a moment, checking myself out.
What I see is beautiful. What everyone else sees is what I want them to see.
I am their type when I want to be.
When I don’t, I’m just another nobody in the crowd, being forgotten.
I’m touching myself, “He wants me, he wants me, he wants me, he wants me,” but I’m catching myself not thinking about him.
I can’t take it any longer. I retreat to my bedroom, winking to the camera, to him, as I get into position on my precious little seat.
When I imagine him watching me I’m nowhere else but deep inside.
Deep inside me.
Deep inside, revealing the real me. The one so willing to fight I coach those with enough potential to bring out the red in all of us.
I’m a radiant light waiting to wash out the withdrawn.
3.
Call me a fiend.
—He calls me a fiend.
Call me a force of confusion.
—He calls me what I want him to call me.
Call me a caring friend.
—He calls me a friend.
Call me whatever you want, but will you come for me?
—He comes into his hand while I watch.
My Pet Serial Killer Page 6
