Have you lost sight of the show?
Did you miss a few episodes?
Where are you right now?
What does it take to have you back?
And then I’m starting to think I know, I know what everyone wants to see.
You want to see it, don’t you?
Maybe I’m not so different after all.
2.
I visit him with no clear intent. I mean, the data will be erased; what’s the point of these tapes when my pet won’t see them? It’s all me, and that’s what you’re going to get. So let’s set the scene: The girls and I, we’re at the prison early, about thirty minutes before visiting hours begin. We’re already live so there’s no point in waiting. It doesn’t take any more than a ten-dollar bill to get us inside and then another ten to sway the guards into saying yes when they hear that I want to see him.
Derrick Muse, the one and the only. Part serial killer, part philosopher, part cultural icon. He had perhaps the most potential prior to my pet, and for that reason, he wore that label too.
You could say he was, once upon a time, my pet.
You could say that we had a lot of good times together.
You could say that I still wish what we had didn’t end. But then again, he had his own idea of how to end this. He didn’t agree with how I wanted his legacy to be seen. He’s more into the acclaim of media. He liked the way he looked on camera. He wanted to be known not only as a serial killer but also as a musician, a philosopher, and a heartthrob. He wanted it all. And for that reason it wasn’t meant to be. If he really were mine, he wouldn’t have the surname “Muse.”
When we were close, he had an entirely different name. Doesn’t matter what he name was, it’s all in the past. He had the same gimmick, though.
Either way, when I see him sitting across from me—like he hadn’t been incarcerated for the past five years—we can’t help but pick up where we left off.
“Claire.”
He looks at the girls, one standing on either side of me, “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
He does that thing with his mouth that gets everyone on his side. It’s cute. He’s so damn charming; he could have been anything he wanted. I’m aware of, at least vaguely, that he needed more than I could give him. But I was his master, after all.
“Well, you don’t look any different.”
He leans back in his chair, sound of ankle cuffs dragging against the concrete floor.
“I’ve led a very monk-like existence lately. Exercise, writing, correspondence—All I’ve got to keep me from going sane.”
There it is again, his sense of sly humor.
Always believed in being different. He really relished in being eccentric.
Everything about the guy is practiced. What makes him one of the best killers is how he’ll make you his best friend right before he’ll end your life.
“Aren’t you going to say anything nice about me?”
I’m watching as he inspects his fingernails, “What do you want me to say?”
“You were always a jackass, Derrick.”
He laughs, “Someone’s pissy today.”
“You could have least said what everyone usually says.”
He looks around the room, gives a sort of glare at one of the other inmates, “Oh yeah, and what do people say during these things? I wouldn’t know.”
I’m detecting some sarcasm.
But then he’s a charmer, always has been, and what he says next makes me forget how everything went wrong.
“You’re not here to see me, Claire. You don’t play the game like that. I don’t know what you’re doing, but you never show up for a second visit.”
He’s right.
“You’re not acting like yourself. For one thing, why is the camera on me and not you?”
He knows me.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” He leans forward, hands folded, his attention completely mine.
“Don’t start,” I’m not falling for it, no, no, “I’m not one of your fans, one of your trophies that visit you all the time, giving you whatever you need.”
“All I need is you, Claire.”
Ugh. When does saying something like that even work?
Then again, you’re probably thinking, when does it not?
“Shut up.”
“Sure thing.”
We’re sitting in silence but not long enough for him to seduce my girls, because that’s what he’s best at, after all; it won’t take much, a few glances, a few words. He’ll have them like, during my lonelier moments, he had me.
I’m not saying I regret it; we were perfect together. He just wanted everything I loathe.
I mean, who cares about intellectual property and making money when you’re stuck in a cell with no ability to use it?
He cares—to Derrick, the legacy is a financial empire based entirely on brand.
He’s starting to chuckle.
“What is it?”
“You’re a wicked one, Claire.”
Roll of the eyes, I’m brushing that bullshit aside, “I’m here to talk. That’s why I’m here. No other reason but that.”
“Sure.” Ugh that grin. “Let’s talk.”
I catch him looking at them, “You got a problem?”
“Not at all. I just haven’t seen them in so long.”
I’m sighing, “Well the days of copping a feel are long gone.”
“Understandably.”
More silence.
This is making me look bad.
I could probably create a diversion, pretend something else is important, but I don’t think he’d care to notice. It’s all the same to him. And that’s where I’ve figured him for imperfect: He’s into himself and, if he were forced to live or die, he’d beg for his life. I’m sure he’s staved off execution due to his level of popularity. He should have been dead by now. Can’t be any simpler than that. So that’s how I’ll turn the camera back onto him. Let’s talk about Derrick.
Derrick loves talking about Derrick.
I’m asking him, “How big’s the cult now?”
“It’s not a cult, Claire. How many times do I have to tell you?”
It is a cult. He has a bunch of loyal female fans and quite a few men too that do nothing but spread the word, sell merchandise with Derrick’s own designs on it. They’ll also print up his latest manuscript and get it into the hands of every agent in town. There’s a movie in the works.
This is Derrick’s idea of a legacy, and I’ll admit that it’s impressive, but where we disagreed so much was how much input he has in the creation of this legacy. It feels more like it’s a business rather than expression. You see what I mean? Just look at him.
Everything about him is improbable.
And yeah, he’s talking about his cult, explaining it all to me in clear-cut language just like this is some boardroom meeting.
I’m not listening.
The ladies don’t seem to either.
They’re like you, wanting to speed it up to the end, the payoff, but hey, we’re live: You’re getting every excruciating detail, good or bad.
I’m yawning and he notices.
I did that intentionally.
I want him to feel pressured. I want him to know that he’ll never really have me. I’m here because I want to be here, not because I need to be. I’ll find favor wherever I can find it. It’s really good to see Derrick; he can be as predictable as anyone else.
I’m telling him I don’t care.
“I don’t care about all that.”
I’m telling him, “I was just making small talk.”
There we go. You see it? Peeling back a layer, “Then why the hell are you here?”
“I think you know,” I’m saying without looking at him. Feeling tired all of a sudden, inspecting whether or not it’s mental or physical exhaustion. Probably both.
“You act so tough, but I can see it.”
“What do you see?”
“You�
��re tired. You’re lonely.”
I shrug, “Posing for the camera gets old.”
“We’re in agreement there.”
And then he needs to know, and this is where I have him, right where I want him, “Where is he? You’re not alone. He must be somewhere.”
“What makes you think it won’t be me?”
He raises an eyebrow, “Oh come on.” He laughs.
So I reply with, “Maybe I’ve learned to live with myself.”
All by myself. Not a single fucking person.
How’s that for believable?
He says, “That’s not the Claire I know.” Not very it seems.
“Oh yeah,” raising my voice, “and which Claire do you know?”
The girls step forward. Good for them; they understand what I’m trying to do. In case you don’t understand, I’ll explain: I’m trying to confuse him with the thought of them being my clones.
“I think you’re worried,” he says.
Seems he’s not into science fiction.
“You’re worried that you’re the reason for his disobedience.”
What did he just say?
Looking satisfied, Derrick nods, “I was your pet once. You need to be in control.”
He probably said that to provoke me. He shouldn’t be provoking me. No, not here, not now. Watch as a smile outlines my face. “Let’s take a look at the situation here, hmm?”
I point to his cuffs and then I point to my wrists, “Who’s shackled? Who is serving life sentences in a fucking jail cell, hmm?”
He seems to understand and tries to interrupt me, but I dismiss it. He’s going to listen and listen well, “It’s just like you to act so calm when you’ve been stripped of everything. Your basic liberties, as an individual, are trashed. I did that to you the moment you got this big-brained idea to leave me. I gave you everything. . .”
Tries to say something again so I shout:
“I gave you everything!”
If this weren’t live, we could cut to a quick shot of the girls going around the room with the guards, forcing all visitors and inmates to stand up and leave. If not a momentary cut, it could have been a picture-in-picture kind of affair. But instead, you’ll have to keep it to a view of Derrick, the faintest of glimpses partially visible from the area around his shoulders.
Is that fear in his eyes?
Seems he may have doubted me too.
“Why do you think I can’t do what you do?”
He doesn’t say.
“Hey sweet talker, answer me!”
“I don’t have to answer to you,” he closes his eyes and does breathing exercises.
I think: monk-like, recalling it from earlier and it’s enough to get right down to it.
I hum some kind of song, lyrics being, “The day Derrick Muse died.”
The room cleared out, all that’s left is what he’s done to so many others.
I take out a mirror and shove it in his face, “Look at yourself one last time.”
The ladies are laughing. It is kind of funny, isn’t it?
“You’ll never see it again.”
Perfect last words for the guy. If you want to think about the aftermath, just think:
His empire will crumble; his worth will not double. He’ll be remembered more as a businessman than a serial killer. Infamy will not be his, the element of mystery completely destroyed.
To be timeless, there needs to be an element of mystery.
You need a piece of me in your life.
3.
Warning: Zero cuts. No edits made. This is footage.
It’s exactly as it happened. You’ll come to use this whenever someone doubts what I’m willing to do. Consider it proof. Now see what happens. . .
I asked him right then and there, if he missed me.
Looking into the mirror, he shook his head, not even a single moment of doubt, so I put on gloves, reached behind his head, grabbing a handful of hair, and smashed his face into the mirror.
Shattering in multiple places, a few shards remain lodged into his face.
Didn’t get any in the eye.
We’ll have to change that.
I tell the girls, “Not a single word.”
Hush.
“Derrick’s got a lot to say,” I pick out the shards from face, “so let this be a love letter.”
Snap of a finger, signal for water, I’m pouring it all over his face, cleaning the wounds.
“A beautiful love letter to the entire cult.”
She starts taking off her clothes, ties her brown hair in a knot to keep it from getting in her face, as I say, “After this, they’ll understand why his empire won’t survive.”
Fully naked, you can see the little white string dangling from her vagina.
She takes it out and walks over to where he remains cuffed and seated.
I’m repositioning the seat so that the back of his head is pressed against the tabletop.
She touches herself, inserts two fingers inside.
It’s dark, which means she’s only just begun menstruating.
I give her the nod.
Straddling his face, she sits into the curve of his chin.
I’ve got my left hand cupping the area under his chin and my right hand pressing down on the top of his head. He can’t move and he won’t be able to open his mouth.
She gyrates and, for what it’s worth, has a good time.
You can see red streaks all across his face.
I’m looking into the camera. I’m neither amused nor disappointed. This feels a lot like homework. Doing what needs to be done. It happens because, well, how about this reason:
Because someone, somewhere, had the idea.
It’s obvious.
She keeps at it until I can hear him choking.
From there, what’s done matches precisely what he used to do to all his victims.
I kick over his chair, pull down his pants, and start on him, stroking his penis while she gets ready. He never failed to satisfy his sexual urges.
When he’s hard, she rides him raw.
Tears stream down his face.
I like what I’m seeing.
Waiting patiently with the knife, I watch as she lets herself have fun. I mean, why not? My assistants should have fun. I’m the only one that won’t be satisfied.
He’s getting close—jeez, shows how long he’s really had since a good lay—so I cut right at the base. She stands up before he can really spray.
Let the blood get everywhere else.
She pulls it out, surprised to see how it has remained in shape longer than we expected.
I take it and show it him.
His eyes wide, feeling the pain, seeing what I’m capable of.
Capture this candid moment. He’s going to start begging.
I’m having none of it though.
Get that tongue out of there.
I’m taking a second to look at the current status of the kill.
Hmm. I break the silence for a second, “What do you think, ladies?”
“Something’s missing.”
“Yeah, something’s really missing.”
They’re really trying their damnedest to be me.
I appreciate it.
So we have one Derrick Muse. . .
Emasculated.
Humiliated.
Call it whatever you want, but for someone that has based his entire self on the opinions of the media and his fans, this is the lowest possible point.
Go ahead and start begging.
It’s what’s missing.
I can watch the fight drip out of him all day. He lasted a whole lot longer than I expected; he really had a lot of potential. It’s true. Makes this so much better. He won’t give in so quickly, not like the typical victim. I’ll give him that: he’s always been a fighter.
Now beg.
Life’s flashing before your eyes, and what you’re thinking is: Damn, I wasted it.
Could have been everyt
hing you hoped for but that’s not what you think about when you’re this close to the end. You’re thinking about everything you lost. You think about what you didn’t do, what you weren’t able to accomplish.
Derrick, he’s thinking about how he lost me.
If what we had was anything like loyalty, it was that I stayed loyal to him. Master gave until the pet decided to bite back.
When he finally does beg, it’s really a disappointment.
You see it too—what do you think?
Really, I’m getting tired of this.
I kneel down on one knee, “It’s okay Derrick. We both know you’ll believe anything as long as it makes things easier. Believe that the data will be erased. Believe that your legacy will be notable. Believe that, between you and me, there may have been more. Believe what you want to believe. It’s not going to prevent me from killing you.”
I gesture for the saw.
I draw a line using lipstick across his bare neck.
Like I said before, keep to what they did. It works better for the media. A serial killer killed using his/her own gimmick. There’s nothing more poetic than being fed the slop you sell.
I’ll enjoy this, almost as much as you will.
The mystery devours all doubt.
4.
My dear pet—
It’s not the same.
Being the serial killer.
I can. Apparently it was in question.
Now it’s mere fact.
What’s left but the actual? The realization that there’s nothing mysterious about it, when there’s no pet, a master is just another person, searching for missing pieces.
I’ll say it, say what I didn’t want to say:
I feel empty.
I feel unfound. Most of all. . .
I feel alone.
Where are you?
Where’s my pet?
I looked where his tape should be, and the one before that, and the one before that one. . .I’m thinking he didn’t leave one this time. Why would he? I haven’t left tapes in the past three locations.
Proof that he might be doing what I’m doing. It’s a good thing gone bad.
Kept so much from him. For a while, it didn’t feel like he was really there. And maybe you’d get the idea that a character had been killed off, one that wasn’t supposed to die, at least not unless I wanted it to happen.
My Pet Serial Killer Page 26
