Nothing but Darkness

by Maria Ann Green

  This is perfect.

  Now my pack is ready.

  ****

  As I watch the sun set, I realize I haven’t had dinner. In fact, I could barely eat all day. I’ve been too excited, too entranced by visions of tools painted red, to pay attention to the rumble in my stomach. I should eat before leaving, though. I wouldn’t want to get faint with the torch at the ready.

  After making a sandwich and inhaling it, I stop at the bathroom on my way out. I don’t want to have to stop for either tonight. Once my pants are zipped back up, I nearly sprint out the door. At least I remember to lock it.

  My timers are set at odd intervals in different rooms to appear I’m home again tonight. My TV is on as well and it’s a little too loud, not high enough to be annoying, but just enough to be heard. Little precautions, hoping some neighbor glances outside to see I’m “home.”

  I’m not driving more than two minutes before a freezing mist starts. This will either serve me well, or it’ll make my intentions impossible. I’m hoping for the former. The sky is cloudy, and the moon isn’t showing much except to peek out for a second or two at a time.

  I get near the shelter relatively quickly but drive by without stopping. I don’t want to pick anyone up right outside even though I have a new set of fake license plates on the car. So I creep down a block and to the back of the building, hoping to find a straggler alone outside after supper.

  At first I think I’ve struck out, ready to drive around for a while before making another pass, but then out of the shadows I spot someone with long, ratted hair under layers of coats walking toward my slow-moving car.

  Bingo.

  I pull to a stop next to the curb, but don’t put it in park. Instead I roll, inviting her to follow. She does. It’s darker, farther away from where we spotted each other. I stop again when she knocks on my window and this time finally switch to park. I roll it down, trying hard not to smile at the prickling on my scalp.

  “Have any change?” Her words come out garbled, slurred.

  “Sure.” I make to dig into my pocket. “When’s the last time you ate?”

  Don’t need to ask the last time she drank.

  “Yesterday.” Her teeth are brown, several missing. She’s underweight. This isn’t her first night without a roof over her head.

  “Hop in, I’ll take you through a drive-through, and then you can keep the change.”

  Luring the hungry in with the promise of food. How terrible. And terribly smart as well, thank you.

  “You’re not gonna try anything funny, are you?” Smart girl.

  “I’ve been down on my luck before, too; just trying to help out. If you don’t want dinner, that’s okay. I’ll move on.” A cleverer, or more sober, person would notice I never actually answered her question. But she doesn’t.

  The threat of losing my offer works. She jumps to reply. “Okay, okay. How about McDonald’s?” She smiles broadly, showing more rot and gums than I wanted to see. It’s hard not to cringe. A foul, pungent odor enters with her, but I’m too excited to mind. Hopefully it doesn’t linger after she’s out.

  “How long have you been on the streets?” Interest from me should mean trust and relaxation on her part.

  While she answers with a longwinded sob story, I offer her my soda. Her taste buds must be damaged from the hardships of living outside, because she doesn’t taste the huge dose of crushed sleeping pills dissolved inside. She carries the conversation on for about ten more minutes before her head starts to bob, and she’s out before I even pass the drive-through she wanted.

  “Tsk, tsk. How rude of you nodding off in the middle of the conversation. You should learn to pay better attention to the person offering you a warm meal.” I chide the unconscious passenger next to me.

  I finally let my face contort, stretching into the grin that’s been waiting to be set free, as I drive along the highway toward a thick patch of woods in the middle of nowhere.

  ****

  When Homeless comes to, she’s already been tied securely with thick rope in a standing spread eagle between two closely growing trees.

  “What the fuck’s going on?”

  I walk a circle around her and the pair of trees, relinquishing nothing. Withholding a reply, I tap a knife along the bark as I move. She flinches with each scraping sound of metal to wood, but she doesn’t speak again. Instead she pulls at her wrists until her irritated skin reddens, begging for her to stop.

  She wants so bad to get free.

  This one should prove to be exceptionally fun.

  “What’s your name? You didn’t mention it earlier.” She makes eye contact with me as I pass back in front of her, and she doesn’t look away.

  “Does it matter?”

  She grunts after asking, offering no moniker. Her struggles against the ropes must be painful. Even in the darkness I can see tiny drops of blood trickle down her arms from the friction. My cock stirs, and my pupils dilate.

  “Not really, no. Just curious.”

  I change from circling my prey to pacing in front of her, keeping my eyes on her face, watching every little change in expression. This will never get old.

  “Thought so.” She’s a woman of few words, but she doesn’t stop moving. Her limbs continue looking for a weak spot in the material binding her. She won’t find one. As much as she tries to hide it, there’s a need to break free deep within Homeless. She wants to run.

  She wants to live.

  But she won’t. Not if I have anything to say about it.

  “You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I stop in front of her and place the point of the knife on her cheek. I drag it slowly down her jaw, stopping along her collarbone. Goosebumps raise everywhere the metal grazes.

  “Nothing new. Have been my whole life.” Her conversational skills in the face of death are exceptionally collected.

  I don’t answer right away. I watch as her breathing becomes more labored. She’s finally starting to panic. The pulse in her throat is pounding against the thin layer of skin. I can see her struggling against a scream.

  I stop observing, finding my voice again. “Well, then at least this end was expected.” With my last words her eyes scrunch tight, and her lips form a hard, solid line. But she can’t will the pain away. She’ll still feel every bit, even with her eyes closed.

  It’s just too bad for her it won’t be quick.

  I drop the knife back into the kit without using it. Tonight I’ll let my creative side out to play. I bend over and grab the first three items to touch my pulsing fingers. As each comes into view, I stack them neatly on a stump in plain view of us both.

  First out is the drill.

  Second the bleach.

  Third the art piece.

  Homeless sucks in her breath, sharply, after all three are staged. She must have looked. I can tell she’s determined not to scream, and I decide it’s my goal to break her resolve. I can only kill her after she screams.

  My blood pumps forcefully under my skin, and I’m surprised it can be contained. There are sparks flying with each surge of it out of my heart. Its feels on fire, like I’m burning from the inside, but it doesn’t hurt.

  It feels incredible.

  I point to the three items, taunting, “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe…,” before throwing my head back to laugh. My jests don’t faze Homeless enough. Her eyes and lips stay tight. She’s unwavering, but I’ll crack her. I know I will. I have to break her spirit before I cut it from her.

  Ready to hear screaming, I start with the drill, running it close to her ear so she can hear the force of its spinning, so she can feel the air whipping from its bit.

  Then I strike.

  I’m amazed at how easily it plows through the flesh of her stomach. She grits her teeth, moaning, but nothing coherent escapes, still no screams yet. So I move to a more sensitive area with the drill.

  I take the walk around to her back as slowly as I can force myself to. I want the terror to build. Though, I
don’t manufacture a monologue for her, I just set back to work once I reach my destination. Words don’t seem to work on this one. The psychological is pointless. Torture must be the shining star of this masterpiece.

  I smile as the pleading begins, after pulling down the waistband of her pants.

  “Please don’t. Please. Please…” Her shaking becomes frantic as the drill starts to spin once more.

  “Ah, she does care what happens to her.” I hold the drill in my armpit, clapping loudly with my leather-covered hands. The sound is sharp.

  Her body lurches with her sudden sobbing. She’s crumbling.

  “This is too much fun.”

  Her sobs become silent, but the movements from them continue to rip through her. I lean close enough to her that my zipper touches the bare skin of her ass, and my lips are millimeters from her ear.

  “Scream for me, baby. It won’t stop until after you’ve screamed.”

  All sound catches in her throat, and she groans in desperation after the rush of air surges out. Without getting what I want, I press the dripping metal of the bit to her back entrance. I let it enter before turning the power button on. Once it’s at full speed, I finally have the satisfaction of her beautiful screams. They’re loud, panicked, and incredibly nourishing. Somehow I can see the vibrations of each pass through the cold night air around us. They’re brighter than the stars above. And then each noise is colored. Her deep cries are as red as her blood, but the higher squeaks turn to blue and green. A rainbow of screaming flows like paint on a canvas.

  I’ve never been so thrilled in my entire life.

  ****

  After the drill, I douse each wound with bleach to elicit blinding burning. Her screams continue, morphing into low, hoarse pleading. The second round is as amazing as the first. I never knew what a range of sounds one person could make until tonight.

  Once her head is limp against her shoulder, I replace the bleach on the stump, trading it for my final device in tonight’s showcase. After slapping her cheeks to make sure she’s still awake, I say the last words she’s ever going to hear.

  “Buck up, kid, this life is shit anyway.”

  Poetic, I know.

  Before she has any time to answer, I start to bash her head repeatedly with the sculpture. Her face puffs up, blood pouring from her scalp. She’s dead after the first couple of blows, but I can’t stop myself. The metal spikes bend after a while, and I’m not sure this can be used as a weapon after tonight. I continue for several minutes, only stopping when I nearly pass out from an overloaded system.

  After sitting on the ground for a few minutes, my composure returns. I cut her down, using the rest of the bleach to douse her.

  Burying her is slow, and I relish the time to relive every second of tonight’s playtime. Each woman I’ve played with has been special, each unique. The-One-Who-Doesn’t-Count was dreamy and all instinct. I didn’t realize what I was doing. The next, the true first, was calculated and scheming with a huge amount of planning before the fun took place. And tonight was a brutal show of my ability to conquer a challenge, to elicit the reactions I wanted.

  I strip her clothes and throw them into the hole first. After dousing them in some of the cleaner, I light them and watch as they turn to ash. Flames crackle until they burn out, and all that’s left is beautiful black soot. I have the odd urge to roll around in it, barely resisting.

  But then I remember. I’m supposed to have something. I’m supposed to be given something. Something special. So I can remember. Where is my donation? I don’t see any jewelry on Miss Homeless, and I start to feel a panic rising to my throat, and like bile it stings.

  What should I do? I want a donation. I need a donation.

  I need her to have jewelry. Fuck, I should’ve considered someone homeless wouldn’t have jewelry.

  But before I have a full-blown freak-out, something shiny sparkles in the brief moment of moonlight between cloud cover. There must have been something in her pocket too solid to burn in the temporary flames. I reach in to pull out what caught my eye. It’s a single cuff link now smudged with soot. It’s silver, and it’s simple.

  It’s so perfect.

  I can breathe again as the fog that was starting to move in clears.

  I can’t stop myself from bouncing once in elation. Since I have what I need, I kick Homeless into the hole and start covering her with the earth I just dug up. I smile, thinking it’s fitting I didn’t know her name. It’s been a pattern so far. First The-One-Who-Doesn’t-Count, and now this one. I knew Kristi’s name in between. So the next must also divulge hers.

  After I got home from the woods last night, and before I went to bed, I took a quick trip down to the basement in search of something specific. It took a couple boxes, but on my third try I found what I was looking for.

  My mother’s old wooden jewelry box now contains the pieces of jewelry donated to me. It’s lined with black velvet that’s aged with time. It was an old piece given to her long before I was born. Now I’m exceptionally glad I kept all of my parents’ belongings for the second time in as many days.

  I left her jewelry in the box and added my own tie clips and cuff links. Everything of my mother’s, and everything of mine, the donations included, was cleaned meticulously. Only I know what two gems are special. The box’s new place on the dresser, just inside my walk-in closet, is perfect.

  I can look inside any time I want.

  ****

  In my all-consuming excitement of last night, I almost forgot what’s going to happen this afternoon.

  I’m going to fuck Amelia, holy shit.

  After years of fantasizing, of imagining, I’ll actually get to touch her bare skin, burying myself deep inside her. This is going to happen, and I’m going to relish every second.

  A slight pang of guilt strikes deep in my gut, but it hits softer and leaves quicker than the last few. It’s getting easier, and Jason will never know. Besides, even if I’d said no, it wouldn’t have prevented Mel from leaving him in the future. At least she’ll be sleeping with a friend while pregnant with his fourth kid instead of some stranger. At least I’m clean.

  At least I can rationalize.

  I flash to Bee’s face after Jason’s. And after a moment I let it go as well. We haven’t even hinted at exclusivity; hell, we’ve only been on one date. For now this is my choice, and I’m still eager.

  I wonder how Amelia will act during the football game with everyone all under the same roof. Will she try to ignore me? Will she corner me for a stolen moment? I don’t even know how I’ll act or which is preferred. Obvious or suspicious behavior will hopefully be avoided at the very least. If I have one goal today it’s to be calm, normal. Normal. I wouldn’t go as far as to hope I appear trustworthy, because, well, I’m not, but I just want to act like my usual self.

  Well…my usual, non-psycho-killer self, at least. That half that’s usual. I do have this double personality thing going well right now, which is helpful. I can be nervous to spend the evening with a woman who intrigues me one night, then the next night I flip a switch and can viciously murder another woman, bathing in her screams. Those two sides are a little opposing.

  If I had to guess, I’d bet those two sides won’t play nice together forever. I’m thinking one will eventually win out, taking over. But only time will tell; for now, they’re both intact.

  I continue to sit in my pajamas on the couch, watching as the morning minutes tick by. Each time the numbers change, I get closer to the moment when I’ll have to leave for the Moore house.

  I’m not nervous like I was while standing on Bee’s doorstep (was it only a day and a half ago?), but there’s a certain twinge of unease. I dig deeper, finding a little guilt is present, and I can’t tell if it’s for Jason or for Bee. Or maybe a little of both. I’m more unsure about what will happen.

  I have to drag myself to the bedroom in search of daytime clothing. I’m not excited to don denim, a belt, or shoes with laces.

 
; Fuck it.

  I’m not getting dressed. I’ll show up in my old, worn flannel pants topped by my same sweatshirt from Friday, because I’ve no idea what I should wear otherwise. I’m not dressing to impress, anyway; she already made the proposition, and I already accepted. No cat and mouse left to play. I skip the coat and jog to the car, wondering if this is how Jason’s felt since landing Mel.

  I’m ready to find out what’s in store.

  No more waiting.

  ****

  “Get in here, it’s freezing.” Jason has the front door open before I even reach it. Maybe I should’ve grabbed my jacket.

  “How’s it going?” How’s your wife?

  “Same ol’, same ol’.” He slams the door behind me, unintentionally, with help from the wind.

  “That good, huh?”

  Jason lets out his hearty, belly-deep laugh as we walk to the living room. It gets louder as his belly gets bigger.

  “Mel’s upstairs with the girls, so we’re on our own for food today. I was thinking delivery?” My stomach sinks just a fraction. I hope she comes down to interact with us at least a little. Maybe she’s afraid of giving anything away, thinking it’s better just to hide.

  Maybe she knows best.

  “Delivery’s great. How about lots of wings?” Jason drops his weight on the couch and it groans in protest. He’ll break it one day, and I wonder if he’ll take it as a sign to lose a little weight. I sit down without the dramatic effect.

  “It’s like you can read my mind.” Jason makes the call to order while pulling out the cash. He lays it on the table in front of me as a cue to answer the door when it arrives.

  ****

  Over an hour later, my stomach growls as I answer the door.

  “Here.”

  I shove the cash into the young kid’s hand, slamming the door in his face. I wish Jason hadn’t included such a generous tip, because it took way too long to get here, and it’s already close to halftime. Mel still hasn’t made an appearance, either. My irritability is starting to show. Jason’s already made several sideways glances at my sighs and huffs.