Story ideas are always formless vapor swirling about my head, waiting to turn into a story. You have to capture these wisps with a tight strangle-hold and wrestle them into form. Some days they are easy to catch and coax into shape. Other days, the wisps cannot even be seen by mortal eyes, and they slip through your fingers.
All of this to say “Hey, today was a much better for hunting and wrestling.”
I’ve always wondered if the others look down on me. They are always so confident, so brazen. It’s like they don’t even notice when I’m around.
Sure, I’m trying not to stand out, raise alarm bells, but we tend to recognize each other. I’m just uncertain whether their indifference is because I’m so good at blending in, or if it’s because I’m so beneath their notice that no one cares. They are all ashamed of me. I’m not even worthy of a pinch of acknowledgment.
Secretly, I know they talk about me. They laugh, poke fun. “He’s the lamest serial killer in the history of humankind,” they’ll say, or “Awwww, has the widdle poisoner passed his widdle bottle to the whiney, mewling human babies? He doesn’t even cut them or dismember them in any way. He has no proper sense of the joyous splatter of blood or the satisfying crunch of bone. What a pansy!”
Maybe they are right. I’m nor a proper monster. I stink at this whole game. I can hear their laughter.
“Only 12 victims! OOOOOooooooohhhh I’m *so* scared! A mail carrier, and a retired school teacher? Where’s the sport in that! Those are the kind of people that posed no challenge, showed no skill. A child could’ve done those people. He just got lucky.”
I shouldn’t think about those guys.
I rounded the corner on the way to my favorite dinner spot. We killers are creatures of habit. Just as I’d cleared the edge of the building, I saw it. A body lying a few feet in front of me. He looked like he knew karate. I made this bold assumption based upon the fact that the body was clothed in a gi with a round badge on the shoulder, with “Beat at Joe’s” on the top arc, and “Joe’s Karate Shack” on the bottom arc. I hated Joe instantly.
The guy was lying in a pool of his own blood. It was all over the street. Blech. I hate blood. It makes me feel woozy. I had to get out of there.
Wait. I bet they did this. This was left for me to find. One of those smarty-pants serial killers trying to make fun of me, see me freak out. HA-HA guys. You suck.
The guy was clearly dead though. Maybe I should call the cops.
I waited for the cops to come. I hope they don’t suspect me. I answered their questions in my usual laconic fashion, I’m not known to be chatty. Shouldn’t be too suspicious.
Do you think the others were watching? Man, I hope not. I bet they were. I probably would. Well, unless that’s a bad idea. Maybe I should ask someone, or something. Yeah. Tomorrow. That’s it. Tomorrow I will earn their respect.
I was struck by the idea of a serial killer with no confidence, and part of me wonders if it’s even possible to be a serial killer with no self-confidence.
laconic / lay – CAW – nik / using or involving the use of a minimum of words, concise to the point of seeming rude or mysterious.