by Erik D'Souza
Have You Ever Heard of
The Lent Killer
Copyright 2014 Erik D’Souza
License Notes
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Disclaimer
This book is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner and are in no way to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations and locales is purely coincidental.
TCP
Timbercrest Publishing
Table of Contents
Title page
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
About the Author
I
It is the first day of Lent, Ash Wednesday. The Mardi Gras parties are being swept away. A street cleaner whistles as he hoses down the road, washing away the vomit, the beer, the cigarette butts and the semen. Similar men are cleaning similar messes all over the world. But nowhere else compares to Mardi Gras in New Orleans. We are the dirtiest and the most notorious.
Christians around the world start their famines in order to commiserate the crucifixion and resurrection of their Lord Jesus Christ. This is the story of my death and resurrection. Although the means in which I will use to reach my immortality are of the opposite spectrum from that which Jesus used. The results will be the same. I came not to bring peace, but to bring a sword. I know now what Jesus knew then: my days are numbered. It’s a scientific fact. And science, like God, does not change its mind.
It’s remarkably sunny for the beginning of the end. It is a day unlike any other and yet the most important day of my life.
I travel by bus to Holy Cross in the Lower Ninth Ward, an area devastated by Hurricane Katrina seven years ago. This was once a vibrant, suburban neighborhood, with quaint single-family homes built in the 1950s. They were painted white, with manicured lawns and colorful gardens. Now a lot of it has been abandoned and forgotten by the rest of America. Maybe it’s for the best; it’s only a matter of time before another hurricane strikes this land and wipes everything away again.
I walk through a small patch of houses that seem to have been spared much of the devastation. There were survivors. Those who stayed remained entrenched in their homes and slowly rebuilt their gardens and re-painted their houses.
I walk up a driveway and scan my surroundings to ensure that no-one is being overly observant. I can hear music coming from inside the small home. Through the window I spy Sheila Watson swaying to Lynyrd Skynyrd while doing the dishes; Stereotypical music for her demographic. It’s turned too loud and is drowning out her voice as she sings along.
I ring the doorbell and Sheila soon greets me, holding a towel as she dries her dish pan hands. She has a warm smile, but her teeth are uneven. Her parents should have had her in braces as a teen, but probably couldn’t afford them. Beyond that her appearance is quite appealing. She is young, probably in her early twenties. Her face is adorned with unblemished skin surrounding vacant eyes. Sheila has an attractive figure; her breasts seem unnaturally large for her slender torso. I wonder if she was one of those girls who begged a rich boyfriend for a boob-job as a present.
“Hello Mrs. Watson, I phoned earlier…. about the ad in the paper. You had a sofa for sale.”
“Yes of course, come in. It’s John, right?” She has an inviting voice, it sounded raspier on the phone, but in person it is pleasant. I enter her home and take my shoes off.
“Oh you can keep them on, I don’t mind.”
“My mother taught me never to wear shoes in the house.”
“Whatever. Suit yourself, I guess.” Sheila laughs the sweetest laugh and escorts me into her den. Antiquated would be the best description of the room. It has paisley walls and a beige carpet. Stuffed animals clutter the limited furniture. They’re crawling all over her bookshelf and TV table. There are at least five of them seated on the red sofa that occupies the middle of the room.
“It’s not in bad shape. I bought it from IKEA about a year ago. It folds out into a bed. I don’t need it anymore since I’ll be moving in with my fiancée soon.”
With that I hit her. My fist squarely smashes into her jaw and she goes out cold. Her body falls back onto her red Ikea sofa, on top of her over-sized teddy bear. Her arms and legs are limp and easy to tie. I gag her mouth just as she is starting to come to. She is moaning softly and makes a futile attempt to struggle. Her eyes are no longer vacant; they are filled with confusion and fear. She is breathing heavily through her nose and her body is shivering. I watch her breasts shake and cup a feel. I was wrong, they are real. They are nice and firm like only a young lady can have. It’s been far too long since I have felt a good pair of boobs. She makes a more earnest attempt to struggle, but it is futile. I have been practicing my knot-tying techniques and I am certain Sheila won’t be freeing herself any time soon.
“Shhhh,’ I warn her softly. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll be quick and out of your life in a couple of moments.” Always tell your captives that you are not going to hurt them, even when you are going to; it keeps them calmer and easier to control. It’s all about control.
I’ve never actually raped and killed someone before. It is going to be harder than I had anticipated. Last night I fantasized about tearing the shit out of a young girl. I wanted to fuck her ass while strangling her. Rip her insides out and piss on her corpse. It was a good fantasy and drove me crazy with desire.
I’m watching Sheila Watson all tied up and subdued, completely helpless, completely mine to do as I wish. I don’t think I can go through with this. She is whimpering like a new born puppy. I am not the animal that I want to be. But I have a mission. I repeat it to myself over and over. Today is day one. There is no turning back now. She has seen my face and knows my given name. At the very least, Sheila Watson has to die.
I wrap my hands around her neck and clench tight. My fingernails dig into her skin and draw a tiny drop of blood. Her eyes widen even larger than I thought humanly possible. She is staring into my eyes and I can’t stand it. This won’t do. I let go.
I retreat into her kitchen and rummage through the drawers, I find exactly what I need, masking tape. Covering up her eyes is a good idea. Take a last look at this world Sheila. It’s not that pretty anyways. Where were we? Oh, I remember. Placing my hands back into place, I start to squeeze.
Damn I can still see her eyes, right through the tape, burning straight into the back of my skull like a laser beam. That does it, strangling is out.
Back into the kitchen I search for an alternative. I find a sharp kitchen knife; Fucking good quality. Mental note: buy a gun. A gun would have been a hell of a lot easier.
Fuck, I can’t do this. I have to do this. I have to do this. I am a man. I am an animal; A raging animal. Nothing can stop me. Not even me. I am not a pussy. I am the Lent Killer. No one is safe.
Pacing back into the den my eyes fall upon Sheila. She has rolled off the sofa and onto the floor. She is facing head down into her beige carpet. I should have thought of that. No more glaring eyes; Struggle no more little bug. We are all destined to die. You may have survived Katrina, but you will not live through this.<
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I raise the knife high over my head, just like Abraham did. I am no longer me; I am reborn. This is my baptism in blood. "God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering".
The body lies still now. There is much more blood than I thought there was going to be. I had only stabbed her twice. But they were efficient strikes; one in the neck and one in the upper torso. She gasped for air, but couldn’t breathe anymore. It’s amazing to watch, nothing like I expected. I cover her up with a blanket; I don’t want to see her again. There is blood everywhere. Somehow I even cut my own hand in the frenzy.
“Both our blood has been sacrificed,” I say to the corpse, as if to make amends. Rest now Sheila, suffer no more.
My DNA is everywhere; it will one day link me to this crime. As far as I know my personal DNA is not on file at any government overlord station. They will not find me until I want to be found.
In the bathroom I wash my hands as best I can. There is blood on my cuff and on my jeans, but I don’t care that much if anyone notices. It will take too long for the police to ever track me down. I’ll be moving on from here, never staying in one place too long. Tomorrow I will kill again, and the day after that and the day after that. I will kill thirty-nine more people before Easter morning; One a day for forty days. No murder will be the same; Different victims with no links to each other, all from different walks of life and in different cities. Every killing will be unique in its manner of operation with new clues at every scene and more misdirection.
