by Ethan Cross
It was no surprise that none of the motel’s other rooms seemed to be occupied and that the parking lot was free of cars.
The client had pulled an old wooden desk chair into the center of the room and handcuffed himself to it. He just sat there, shirtless and staring at the wall, clothed in darkness. Trepidation clawed at the corners of Rhonda’s mind, but the rent needed to be paid, and so she stepped cautiously into the room and closed the door behind her.
“Hello, darling. It looks like you’re all ready for me.” She stepped toward the dresser and flipped on another small lamp. She gasped at what the light revealed.
Scars covered the man’s chest and arms. She had seen plenty in her time on the streets, but never anything like this. Burns, knife wounds, bullet holes. More damaged tissue than healthy skin. His body was a road map of pain and suffering.
“Is something wrong?” he said in a deep and confident voice.
Rhonda forced her gaze up to his face for the first time. It didn’t match the rest of the man. Handsome. Youthful. Strong features and bright, intelligent eyes. She often wondered what led her clients to seek her services. With this man, the reasons were self-evident. Anyone would be self-conscious about scars like this.
She offered her best smile. “No, baby. Everything’s fine. Just give me a minute to freshen up, and we’ll get started.”
She moved toward the bathroom, but his next words stopped her. “There’s no need for that. We won’t be engaging in any sexual activity.”
“Then what kind of activities did you have in mind?”
“There’s a knife on the dresser. I want you to cut me. Just stick in the tip and run a nice long slice. Along a tricep, to start.”
Rhonda had received more than her fair share of crazy requests. Some guys wanted to be beaten or whipped or to dress her up in all manner of crazy outfits and live out their sick fantasies. But she’d never had a client ask her to mutilate his body. The thought of it nearly made her sick.
“I was told that you were the most adventurous companion that the service offered. The money’s there on the dresser beside the knife. It’s three times the fee that I was quoted.”
She looked at the dresser and the money. Judging by the thickness of the wad of bills, he was telling the truth. Still, she knew her limits all too well. She couldn’t go through with this, and she didn’t want to spend too much time in the company of any man who would make such a request.
Then an idea took shape. “Are these real handcuffs?” Rhonda asked. An edge of fear caused her voice to tremble.
She tried to examine them without raising too much suspicion, running her fingers over the edges of the cuffs and feeling for releases or anything to indicate that they were fakes.
“They’re standard police-issue.”
“How did you plan on getting those off when our business was completed? Are you a magician?” Rhonda tried to laugh, but it didn’t sound convincing even to her own ears.
The man smiled, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “I assumed you would be kind enough to remove them. The key’s also on the dresser.”
“Good. That’s what I hoped.”
She patted him on the shoulder, grabbed the money and the key, and headed for the door. Her fingers wrapped around the knob—but then something struck her from behind. Strong hands squeezed her shoulders and spun her around, slamming her back against the door.
He pressed the edge of the blade against her neck with just enough force to hold her in place without breaking the skin. His breath was hot on her exposed flesh. “I apologize if I gave the impression that I was secured to the chair. Because of all the scarring that runs up my forearms, my wrists are much larger than my hands. It comes in handy when I want to slip out of a pair of cuffs. The restraints were to keep me from lashing out involuntarily when you began to make the incisions. They were for your protection.”
Tears ran down Rhonda’s cheeks, streaking the layers of make-up. “Please … don’t … ”
The man lowered the knife from her throat and leaned closer. “I suppose that I shouldn’t judge you too harshly. I do admire a woman who shows initiative, and you can’t blame a girl for trying. But you see, we had a verbal contract, and you’ve yet to hold up your end of things.”
Her fingers clawed at her thigh, pulling up the black fabric of the skirt. She kept a small switchblade concealed there for moments such as this. “You want me to cut you?” She felt the metal handle of the knife, pulled it free, and pushed the button to expose the blade. “How’s this for a start?”
Rhonda jammed the knife into his leg and shoved him away. She expected him to drop, but he remained on his feet and fell against the room’s door, blocking her escape. Screaming for help, she bolted for the bathroom, nearly falling over the chair resting in the middle of the floor. Once inside, she slammed the door behind her and engaged the lock.
Lime green tile-covered the walls, and the room smelled of mildew and urine. A blow shook the doorframe. “You’re trying my patience,” the man said calmly from the other side.
Her whole body trembled. She wiped the man’s blood from her hand onto her dress as she scanned the room for a way out. The shower curtain was thin and white, and light shone through it. She ripped it back, snapping the rings in the process. They fell to the tile with small metallic clinks.
A window occupied the back wall. She scrambled into the tub and pushed up on the window’s frame. It wouldn’t move. She checked for a lock. Flipped the latch. Pushed again. But the window still wouldn’t budge. It must have been painted shut.
The bathroom door flew open. The wood splintering, and the knob striking the tile on the opposite wall. The old green ceramics cracked and shattered and fell to the floor.
Rhonda screamed, but he was already on top of her. His grip was like a vise. It crushed her airway and cut off her cries. He pressed her against the window and lifted her from the floor of the tub.
She clawed at his hand and kicked at him with her legs, but he was so strong and refused to relent. A wave of dizziness swept over her, and she realized that this was her last moment on Earth. She would never see her baby girl again. She would never have the chance to tell her grandma that she was sorry for running away after her parents died.
She wondered what he would do with her body. Would he mutilate her? Bury her in some shallow grave, a feast for the bugs? She imagined the worms crawling through her veins.
The man raised the knife and admired the blade. Light from the translucent window danced across its surface.
This was it. Rhonda tried not to think of the pain to come. Would he bury the knife in her stomach, stabbing her over and over, savoring each thrust in some twisted sexual way? Or would he slice her throat and let her bleed out quickly? She prayed for a quick death.
The knife came toward her. She wanted to close her eyes, didn’t want to see the sight of her own blood. But, for some reason, her eyelids refused to obey the signal that her brain was sending.
She watched as the blade swiped across his forearm just in front of her face, opening three long gashes in his flesh. The blood flowed quickly and dripped down into the bathtub. He closed his eyes as if savoring the moment and licked the blade clean.
Then he relinquished his grip. She dropped to her knees, and he backed away. She gasped in greedy mouthfuls of air, and violent sobbing seized her whole body.
Rhonda looked up to see him sitting on the toilet, watching her. He took a deep breath and said, “I apologize. I lost my head for a moment. I didn’t want to hurt you. To tell you the truth, this is the first time that I’ve contracted with someone of your profession.”
Her hands found the edge of the tub, and she pushed herself to her feet, preparing to lunge for the door. He must have sensed her intention and moved forward, blocking her way out.
“What’s your name? Your real name.”
“Screw you.” Her throat felt like she’d swallowed sandpaper.
He stepped closer, and his eyes narrowed. “I’ve killed a lot of people. Men, women. Knives, guns, fire, my bare hands. I possess an unnatural talent for extinguishing life. But I’m trying to be a good boy here, and I would appreciate it if you showed me at least some small measure of respect. What’s your name?”
“Rhonda,” she said through the tears.
“Thank you, Rhonda. It’s moments such as these when a person must examine their existence and their place in this world. We all have regrets. Some mistakes can be rectified, and some can never be undone. The trick is realizing the difference and acting upon it. In the past, I would have enjoyed killing you. I would have drawn out the process and extracted every exquisite moment of pain possible. But I’ve come to believe that there are three kinds of people in this world. At our core, we’re all either a creator, a maintainer, or a destroyer.”
He took another step toward her, reached out, and took her hands in his. She didn’t recoil from his touch. She just stood there, oddly transfixed. Hypnotized by the intensity of his gaze.
“Maintainers keep the status quo. They’re the worker bees of our little hive, and they enjoy keeping the cosmic wheels turning. It’s what they were made for, and without them the walls of our reality would crumble. Then there are creators. Those rare individuals who dare to discover new things and think differently, to break the chains of fear and bring into existence something beautiful and new. I fall into the third group. The destroyers. But I want to be better than that. I need to be more. Unfortunately, I’ve found that I only feel alive when I’m inflicting pain or experiencing it myself.”
The man kept hold of Rhonda’s hand as he guided her gently back into the bedroom. “What I’m asking you to do is a kindness to me. I want you to help me be a better person. To transcend my nature as a destroyer and become something more.”
He gestured toward the chair and laid the knife in her palm. She stared down at it in confusion. When her gaze returned to his face, he smiled and said, “Now, are you ready to begin?”
THE CAGE
THEY THOUGHT THEY COULD CONTAIN HIM…
THEY WERE WRONG.
Francis Ackerman Jr. is one of the most prolific serial killers in US history. But he’s not only a serial killer, he’s also a serial escapist. When a doctor who has discovered a ground-breaking treatment for psychopaths wants to test his theories upon Ackerman, the madman sees his chance at freedom. The only people that stand in his way are the hospital’s head of security and a young woman with a personal vendetta against the killer.
Here’s an excerpt:
Francis Ackerman Jr. stared into the reporter’s almond-colored eyes. Her features were a perfect mix of East meets West, second-generation Asian-American characteristics tempering Caucasian elements, invoking both the exotic and the familiar. As he fell into those eyes, the killer forgot everything else. He even failed to catch which network news program she represented. She smiled as she thanked him for agreeing to be interviewed. He sensed a slight reluctance, but nothing to indicate true fear. He wondered how her attitude toward him would change if she knew that he had already freed his hands from the restraints.
Since he had become accustomed to a world without color, the reporter’s bright clothes and red lipstick seemed alien in the monochromatic surroundings. The interrogation chair holding Ackerman in place possessed all manner of restraints designed to keep him from harming his distinguished guests: the reporter and her camera crew. But the guard who secured his hands must have failed to read his file. If he had, the guard would have known that due to the severe scarring of Ackerman’s arms—a constant reminder of the pain inflicted upon him by his father—the standard pinch test used to safely but humanely secure a prisoner in handcuffs wouldn’t apply. The scar tissue caused his forearms and wrists to be thicker than his hands, and only the tightest notch of the cuffs could hold him successfully. When he failed to feel the uncomfortable bite on his wrists, Ackerman knew that this would prove to be an interesting day.
After a few preliminary questions to warm him up and test the waters, the reporter began to delve into darker territory. He had debated how to respond to her questions. He had considered his every move and analyzed how his audience would react. After all, this was a grand opportunity to add to his legend by shocking and horrifying the awaiting public. But how to best accomplish such a task?
So many directions he could go: the rambling psychotic, the brooding quiet type, the rage-filled madman, or his favorite, the all-too-popular Hannibal Lecter mold. But he felt that route was almost too distant, too smart, too alien. None of them seemed to accomplish his goal. If he truly wanted to frighten people, he needed to shatter their illusions. He needed to make them feel that he could show up at their doorsteps, charm his way inside, and murder with no provocation, rhyme, or reason. So for the purposes of the interview, he had decided upon charming with a pinch of cruelty.
“Mr. Ackerman, you have been convicted of multiple murders and claim that you have committed many more. Do you have anything to say to the families of your victims?”
He paused for effect and pretended to consider the question. “I believe that I said all that needs to be said to their lost loved ones when I killed them, but if I were so inclined to comment to the families, I would tell them not to shed a tear for those who have gone before . . . for their suffering is over.”
“Is that why you kill? Because you want to make others pay for the suffering you’ve endured in your own life?”
With her words, his father’s voice crept into his mind.
Kill them and the pain will stop . . . You’re a monster . . .
“Not at all. I kill because I’m a predator. What we seem to have forgotten is that we’re just a pack of animals. We like to think that we’re above such things, but in the end, we are all either predator or prey. We’re lions, my dear. We’re the top of the food chain. The problem is that we’re lions who have lived our entire lives in cages. We’ve been domesticated. People like to believe that we’ve filtered out this animal side of our collective consciousness with our misguided senses of morality, but the truth is that the monster sleeps just below the surface. All it takes is a little anarchy, a little disruption in our daily lives, a little breakdown in our nice, quiet society. And when that day arrives and you don’t know where your next meal is coming from, you’ll discover whether you’re a lion or a lamb.”
A ghost of a smile crept onto his face as he continued. “And then there’s me. I’m a lion, of course. But I’m not in a cage—metaphorically speaking, anyway. I’m the lion from the zoo that you hear about every so often that turns on its handlers, escapes, and eats a few tourists. It’s survival of the fittest out there whether you realize it or not. That’s why I kill. I’m a predator, through and through. And I have no illusions about trying to be anything other than what I am.”
He could tell by the rapt look on her beautiful face that he was doing well. There was a twinkle in her eyes, and he knew that the potential for record-breaking ratings was dancing through her head. It was time to make it personal.
After a moment, she said, “So you want to see the world descend into anarchy with only the strongest able to survive, while the weaker of the species are trampled underfoot?”
“My dear, I couldn’t care less what happens to the world. I’m more interested in you, actually.” Ackerman knew that he had inherited good looks from his mother’s side of the family, but his most useful trait at moments such as this were his gray eyes. In that moment, he fixed her with a gaze meant to penetrate her soul. “I’ve answered some of your questions. Now it’s your turn. I want to know something about you.”
She sat back and placed her hands on the edge of the metal table. Condescension crept into her voice. “Mr. Ackerman, I’m not going to reveal my darkest secrets to
you. You don’t need to know anything about me. Now, please tell us—”
He interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to know your darkest secrets, my dear. I have enough darkness of my own. What I’d like from you is a taste of the light. You know my history, so you know that I’ve never been able to experience what it’s like to be normal. I’ve never taken a girl to the prom or shared that first kiss in the backseat of a friend’s car. I’ve never gone out for drinks with coworkers or shared a quiet meal with a woman I love. The vast majority of my life has been spent in a cell much like the one in which I currently reside.”
He looked away for a moment and released a long but measured breath. When their gazes locked again, he said, “All I want to know is your favorite meal. You’re a very beautiful woman, and I don’t mean for that to carry a sexual connotation. We break everything down into terms of sex these days, another example of our true animal selves shining through. But I’m speaking from a purely philosophical and artistic standpoint. I’ve seen how ugly this world can be, and that has led me to appreciate true beauty. And you are beautiful. All I ask is that you share one minor detail with me, so that when I’m sitting alone in my cell with all those ugly memories, I can focus instead upon something beautiful. I can imagine myself sitting with you at dinner, sharing that quiet meal. And maybe, eventually, I’ll forget that it’s just a fantasy and start to believe that I really lived that one pure day. Maybe in that moment, I’ll find some peace.”
