My Pet Serial Killer

by Michael J Seidlinger

  We tried everything together. Back then I didn’t really have a type. I didn’t have it in mind to look for the fight. But I knew what to look for. She had it and really, she tasted so good.

  And it’s nice to see that she accepts him. It’s nice to know that my first accepts my last.

  They talk about me. Macy looking a whole lot older and I’m kind of, you know, shocked to see that she still bothers to be well manicured.

  It’s really what makes this possible—the promise of a conjugal visit.

  There are places where they can go. I’m watching as he straps her down and doesn’t wait. Inserts himself into her and fucks her for a few minutes. She wasn’t ready, I can tell. He was horny; my pet so lonely. No lube meant it was tough to begin with but soon even she felt pretty good.

  Then he stops, takes the camera, and points it down to her naked body.

  She says, “Hello Claire.”

  He zooms so that I can see her face.

  Then she says, “I’m so happy for you.”

  We always understood each other, Macy and I.

  When we parted ways, I didn’t lie to her. She would know better anyway. She’d see right through my lies. I told her what I’d do. She told me, “Do what you need to do.” It was my first breakup and, even though it was mutual, it still hurt so much. It hurt so much that I made it happen. With the evidence, the authorities quickly connected the dots. Made it look like they found it on their own. All I had to do was put it near the crime scene.

  And then it was data fit for her jaunt to death row.

  It’s good to see that she’s still alive.

  I’m glad that she approves of him.

  The tears dripping down my eye aren’t out of sadness. I’m watching my pet fuck her hard, then gently, and then hard again, imagining it were me.

  When I want him to hurt her, he does.

  When I want him to kiss her, he kisses her nice and long.

  He beats her to a bloody pulp because it’s the only way she can come.

  He stops to say, “What do I do now?”

  Damsel, she takes the lead. Teaches him a thing or two. Lets him taste a little bit before his tongue licks the small of her back. There, and here, right there: Perfectly they indulge and, in the cramped stall, smelling of bleach, hearing men pissing in urinals without washing their hands, I get lost in the fantasy. Two fingers are all it takes. Gentle motions are all I need. The tips of both fingers brush against the inner wall, close enough, the feeling close enough to exhale.

  But I don’t. Held back. Waiting for him.

  I want to come when he comes.

  They keep going, thrust after thrust, as he slaps her and she slaps him. Blood drips down his mouth. Familiar fluids trickle out of his penis as he pulls out quickly.

  But not yet. He writes with black marker on her forehead, “I’m sorry.”

  Turns her over, changing positions, and sticks it back in.

  Muffled speech. Faster and faster: Each thrust is matched by a careful strike.

  She punches him hard in the chest.

  He elbows her in the thigh. She comes twice.

  He waits until the third time to pull out, pausing a moment to look into the camera, to tell me it’s time. She lies there, watching, breathlessly and beaten, as him and I make up.

  In the stall, men can hear me moaning.

  None dare to have a look.

  As he comes, he says it one last time, “I’m sorry.”

  I’m pleased, so pleased to accept his apology.

  So pleased to be able to say:

  Data recorded.

  3.

  Truth is, she wouldn’t have made it past his visit. Macy, the Damsel, begged for him to make it right, “If you are, let me show you how. Don’t fuck it up.” It involves work as much as it is an act of wanting, the things we do to know someone else, to know someone fully, is absurd.

  I’m surprised that anyone can be anything but alone.

  But anyway, I accept his apology. I’m taking off my panties and wrapping it around a new tape. I’ll leave it where he knows to look. When he’s ready, he’ll be the one that’ll slip it back on me.

  I’m walking back to the convertible and we’re back on the road, speeding to catch up.

  My assistant calls, asks if I got the tape.

  I’m asking to talk to him.

  Yeah, she warns me that it breaks the rules but really, by now, the rules have been broken enough to be stripped clean.

  “Shut up and drive,” I’m telling her.

  With him on the phone, we don’t need to say much.

  And we really can’t because it might be that someone’s listening.

  Instead, we listen to each other’s breaths.

  Listen calmly as we pick up speed, switching lanes and pushing the limit.

  Listen as it all starts to form into something bigger.

  What we still need to accomplish.

  What the authorities are beginning to find.

  How his work, his gimmick, will be no clearer until we finish, until the number left is zero. When done is done. My pet is quiet and patient.

  He accepts that the most important information will remain unrevealed until the end.

  Like any great narrative, I’d tell him, the mystery can’t be solved until the end.

  His name, his reason, the nature of his legacy, all that won’t work if I just tell him now. He’ll get comfortable; he’ll lose the fight. He’ll get tired of driving. He might pull over and put up roots.

  Got to keep moving. Our need to express is outweighed only by our need to explore.

  Explore every single extent of our tastes.

  Memories, so many memories, yet every time I see my exes again, it’s like we’ve never been apart. I’d like to tell them that they could be so much more; I’d like to tell them that I can help them, but then, really, I’m here to show off my new pet.

  I’m here to tell them it’s over.

  It’s all over.

  The data being recorded is for our own purposes.

  The world won’t end, but ours, it’ll finally involve more than our own egotistical selves.

  Master lectures.

  Pet listens.

  Master will provide instructions.

  Pet will learn.

  He’s done so well. I’m thinking it’s time we get caught up in ourselves.

  A legacy is a structure built around bodies.

  Bit by bit, it becomes something recognizable.

  It becomes the story you can’t help tell to your friends and family.

  My dear pet, you’ll be remembered.

  And I’ll be there to help you remember.

  4.

  Somewhere, on some website, leaked footage exists to be viewed by those deeply invested in the mystery.

  They deal in lies and, at a cursory glance, it’s fake and has no real connection. But if given the full analysis, the handful of the audience would realize that it’s not just something similar. It’s not coincidental.

  He looks like him but doesn’t act like him.

  He drives the same coupe, but seems to do different things during moments when he would have been filming, would have been feeding the mystery.

  However, looking scene-for-scene will get you nowhere. There are too many gaps, too many missing spots to tell the difference. Instead, you have to take a step back.

  You have to look at the footage for what it is:

  Something made to deter.

  Something made to be dismissed.

  It’s a story, sure, but a very peculiar kind of story.

  For the fans, the handful of you that would keep watching something over and over again, no matter how gruesome, no matter how boring, to capture more of the world created using video, you’ll see what I’ve created for him.

  You’ll understand.

  The basics become the most difficult pieces to fit into the mystery.

  A college student with student loan debt. A crimin
ology major with no interest in solving or understanding crime. A brown Japanese coupe that has maybe a thousand miles left before it says goodbye. A student that doesn’t seem nearly as lucky to be my pet. A student that has a decade of loneliness to suffer through. The days to follow no longer feel the same as they did when he was younger, as recent as senior year at Archbishop High. Perhaps he had something to look forward to, back when the days, the collective “tomorrow,” were palpable. It was danger, and danger had always been captivating.

  There are black clouds on the horizon and they’re looking for revenge.

  If you made out with the fantasy, you might be able to look through the cover story.

  The road starts to mess with your eyes. Excuses, excuses. Things that used to be fantasy become factual.

  If you accept it, you’d see through the bits and pieces built to steer you away from solving this mystery.

  For it to work, my pet and I need to remain barely anything at all. . .a story in some book on some shelf that’s maybe read or maybe left dog-eared and forgotten.

  It’s the fantasy that hides our true form. Footage is never “just footage.” Every frame reveals so much more than it takes away. The film adds more even when you swear it contradicts itself.

  This footage is perfect. The filmmakers are professionals. They are perfect, really. They meet every requirement Stephen has for film and a starring cast. Perhaps they’re only a glimpse, but they really are beautiful.

  The one driving is blonde. The one sitting up front is a redhead. The third, a brunette, straddles the handbrake. Their footage matches his. He doesn’t find it unusual.

  And he knows who’s who. It has nothing to do with hair color.

  The girls seem to do exactly what it takes to make you more interested in the footage. What does it take to get you more excited, more intimidated? It takes the brunette and the blonde touching each other and making out. It takes the redhead speeding down the interstate chasing after a scared driver, a fleeing car. It takes the redhead shooting out one of the car’s tires. It requires narrow escapes, the car speeding away slinging sparks. It takes a cliffhanger ending, omitting any and all reason and possibility for this footage to make any sense.

  What am I saying?

  Nothing. Nothing at all.

  Just talk between scenes.

  If you’re willing to look, and I mean really look, you’ll see so much more.

  Things are bolder when you imagine what’s been purposefully left out, withheld.

  Yeah, I’m not saying anything.

  This is our fantasy.

  This is our reality.

  Just talking, that’s all

  This is our mystery.

  Thanks for watching. I don’t think I’ve said that yet.

  Thanks. I’m as beautiful as you think I am.

  5.

  Rules are designed to be broken. It’s the reason someone like me can even be possible. I mean really—the rules I make are built using the cadavers of previous canons.

  Anatomy of a true love; or, a lesson in successful manslaughter.

  1.

  It was like it never lost any meaning, like saying the words wasn’t cliché—I love you.

  We started saying it early in the morning and by the time we had cut him to pieces, my pet and I had turned it into an echo, a refrain for every deep cut of the knife, the snapping of bone, every pull of the trigger, the tortured cries of each victim.

  I love you.

  It was all we needed to say.

  Our actions meant far more, filling in the blanks.

  The rest, we leave it for you to clean up.

  2.

  Scott the Slaughter. Guess who came up with the name?

  Yup. He didn’t have a name in mind. For such a creative fellow, Scott kept his cards close like he didn’t really trust me. After a dozen, a fleshed out gimmick, and he still failed to trust me. So I’m not that angry for what my pet and I do. I’m good like that: Easy to bargain with dollar signs, with batting of an eyelash. We’re hanging in Scott’s jail cell in no time.

  And then it’s happening so quickly, him and I.

  Scott led from the cell back to the convertible. Held down by the ladies.

  My pet returning to his coupe, looking sad, but I tell him, “Cover story.”

  He gets it. I’m probably who’s most hurt by the forced separation; if he’s going to make it onto the front page of magazines, front page of websites across the globe, yeah:

  We have to keep the study alive.

  Fine by me—though we break the rules to be closer, we’re no different than anyone else wanting to remain free.

  Down the road, to the right, and make two lefts so that we won’t miss our exit.

  Cut to the house I rented for the hell of it. Used a lot of the money we got from the gas station. Sure it was a nice financial boost, but I’m not even worrying about the cost—not worrying about anything but how the next few scenes will look like on camera. I’m first out of the convertible.

  I unlock the front door, run inside to open the garage door for both cars.

  We’re home for the time being.

  I’m going to teach him a thing or two about taste.

  It’s got to be tasteful.

  Getting a closer look at Scott, he’s in poor shape. I’m asking him, “When’s your date?”

  Only he knows what I’m talking about, and only he tells me its three days from now.

  “Then you shouldn’t care that it’s been pushed up to today.”

  Scott shakes his head and coughs.

  “Harsh cough,” I’m saying while directing the assistants into the right room. The whole house carpeted, I had plastic laid out in what’s probably supposed to be where the TV goes. This is the room where all of you are likely watching this happen. If that’s irony, use it in a situation where irony isn’t annoying. I’ll let the audience have it.

  Scott doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m thinking it’s been a decade since your last physical.”

  I’d be right. Stripped down, he’s thin, malnourished-looking.

  “Haven’t been eating the food they give you?”

  He coughs and spits, “Stomach can’t take it.”

  “You’d think you’d acclimate. Build up immunity. Something.”

  The ladies get the camera ready, stationary so that we can all have a turn.

  “This’ll be fun,” I’m winking at my pet.

  Scott shivers, “I’m not going to do anything with my last three days.”

  My pet is the last to enter the room. He seems shy.

  I’m not going to ask him why.

  We’ll start soon—don’t be frustrated.

  “Stand there,” I’m telling Scott.

  He does what I tell him, same tone of voice that I use on all my pets. I like that he still remembers me well enough not to test me.

  This will go smoothly.

  Scott standing in the center of the room, my pet at the door, one foot in, one foot out (probably some kind of metaphor there, right? Committed, but only to what’s approved), and my two assistants laying out the black tarp, the tools, tending to the camera so that there aren’t too many jump shots and lost footage.

  “Ready?” I’m asking everyone.

  I give my pet a nod.

  He walks in.

  Won’t look at anyone but me.

  I lick my lips, “Okay let’s do this.”

  3.

  Scott coughs up a wad of phlegm. He won’t stop coughing and it becomes tiresome. Every time I lean down to inspect his body, he coughs in my direction, our direction. It’s disgusting, but he’s saying that he can’t control it. He says that there’s something stuck in his throat, lodged there for years. I duct tape his mouth shut, clearly having enough of his bullshit, and feel his forehead.

  “He does feel a little warm,” I’m saying.

  They can’t resist feeling his forehead after me, repeating what I had said.

&n
bsp; “Warm, definitely.”

  “Definitely warm.”

  “It’s okay,” I’m telling him. We’re here to take the pain away.

  The interesting thing about the mystery is how, depending on context, my pet and I can assume the role of healers at the same time we do what we like to do.

  That’s about as blunt as I can get, you know.

  We like that we’re doing this. On Scott’s benefit, he won’t have to be sick for much longer.

  So what’s wrong? It’s not just a cold. You’re wheezing, have a fever, clammy skin, a constant sweat, discoloration of the tongue. You’re finding it difficult to focus, right? You’re losing sight of what’s happening here. Start talking only to forget what you were talking about a couple words in. Where are we? What are we doing? My name’s Claire and you used to be mine.

  Now you’ll make for a great little experiment.

  I’m going to show my pet how to make the act of killing poetic.

  Oh, that’s right—you two haven’t met.

  Say hello.

  Scott, meet my pet.

  Pet, meet victim.

  He’s great, isn’t he?

  I slap Scott once across the face. I don’t always need a reason.

  It felt good. I’m feeling good. Things are in place and everything I care about is in this room. I can feel the pressure from before settling, easing off. Tapes are ours to keep; the camera captures what you want to see. Everything’s in motion.

  Now for a little anatomy 101.

  I’m starting to get worked up. Showing him what’s what, this versus that. . .this happens and then that happens. What happens next? Use your imagination. We cut here. Remove that. If you want to keep him conscious, don’t go for it first. Amble around major arteries and organs. Cut skin. Break bone. Let cartilage make that satisfying crunch. Just don’t be so hasty. I know it’s sometimes more efficient and better for the scene to be brutal and have gore splatter across the walls. It really does look good, I know, but if you’re going to settle into the gimmick, you’ve got to do what he did.

  “What did you do, Scott?”

  He’s all mumbles and garbled noises due to the duct tape.