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I don't look away when they die. It's more intimate this way.
Watching them choke on their own blood...
The little gurgling sounds and gasps...
This one's a fighter. Her dark hair dangles off her pillow, soaked in blood, caked against the side of her face. Her eyes are wide in fright, hands straining at the leather cuffs as she attempts to reach for her throat.
"Shhh...." I soothe, brushing my fingers along her cheek. "It'll be over soon." My fingers itch to really touch her skin, to draw comfort from the warmth, but I can't. The gloves are a necessity for obvious reasons.
The hot red river flows from the opening in her neck, draining down to the mattress where a puddle collects, swirls, spews it over the side of the bed. It's all soiled now, but she'll never use it again. Someone will come along and clean this up, replace the carpeting, paint the walls, package up her things, and ship them to a loved one somewhere.
The niggle of anger eats away at my chest, sending a burst of adrenaline, but I take a deep breath. It's mercy, I tell myself. Mercy for me, for my younger self, for everything that happened. The counselor said the angry parts of myself are just the parts that love me. The part that would stand up for someone--anyone else in this situation.
Her eyes flutter shut, then snap open. She gasps. I hover over her, watching her face grow pale. She can't speak; I've made sure of that. Can't have any witnesses. Noise draws attention. But her eyes plead with me, begging for the mercy she should've given me. They all should've given me.
"Shhh...."I say again, this time plucking sticky strands of dark brown hair from her temple and cheek. This is more than she deserves, but I won't be like them.
I won't cause that sort of pain.
I heal the pain. I fix what was wrong and should be right.
I end suffering.
The sunlight is fading now, fingers of light clawing across the crimson scene in front of me. Darkness filters in like a warm blanket, wrapping around my body and bringing with it the only comfort I know now. Well, other than offering myself mercy.
Her body stills, and she stares at the ceiling. For six full minutes her life will replay itself in her brain. I've heard its euphoria, remembering all the good moments in your life that you've lived, things you want to take with you but you cant. But I hope it's not. I hope it's the opposite, a hell of her own making, remembering every horrible thing that's happened, replaying every regret and trauma.
Why not?
I'm not dying, and I do that all day every day.
I turn away now, nothing left for me to see. The blood no longer oozes out. Her body is limp. The catharsis is over, but not really. There's no relief; there never is.
I bend and unclasp the leather from around her wrists and ankles. Untie it from the bed posts. It's not always this way. Sometimes they go quietly in the night. Sometimes at dawn just as they're waking. Sometimes there's a struggle. Sometimes they make noise.
She was different. Special.
The connection we had was... stronger.
I collect my things, draw my fingers over her eyelids. Hang my head.
My feet shuffle across her carpet to the door where I glance back at her in the dying light. It didn't have to end this way. It never had to be this way. But it is.
I'm heavy, moving slowly. I walk on air through the house. It's a nice house. Shame someone else will live in it now. The kitchen is open concept, with a smart refrigerator. I've always wanted one of those.
I wash my tool in the sink, use a little bleach which I find in the cupboard below. The heat of the water seeps through my gloves. It'd feel good against my skin, but I wait. Tonight... I deserve it tonight, after everything today.
The letter on the counter next to the sink says Kelly Yost... Kelly... what a nice name. I don't linger on that for very long. There's no attachment to it. Nothing with which to absorb any of this darkness that's consuming me.
I pack my tool away in my bag, place the leather restraints into the pocket, zip it shut,and hang it from my shoulder. When I step into the dusky fall air, the breeze kisses my skin. It's crisp out. Winter is coming. Death of nature. Darkness. Cold.
No one notices me. There are no cameras. I walk down the sidewalk and turn onto the driveway. It's quiet this evening. Nearing six thirty and no activity. Her neighborhood seems pleasant. I head north. Peel my gloves off, fold them together, stuff them in my pocket.
It'll be dinner time when I get home. Max will have made something, I'm certain. I feel lighter now.
My car is parked in the third spot of the center row at Farmer Jack's. Groceries in the trunk. Doors locked. I stash my bag in the spare tire well and startle when a man in dark clothing approaches me. His eyes stand out against the night sky like omens, but my mind stays calm.
It's always calm.
I don't know how I do it.
"Uh, lady, you can't park here all night."
Farmer Jack's is open until eight. I don't know what his problem is. My car's only been here a few hours.
"Yes, sorry." I smile politely, nod at him. He's not my type.
"You can't just park here and walk off... Customers only."
I'm tempted to open the trunk, show him my purchases, but I say nothing. Dinner is waiting.
I climb in and start my car, feeling exhaustion needle at my body. The kind of exhaustion that comes after feeling heavy emotions. I feel them all the time. There isn't a time I don't feel them. They're there, under the surface, like a molten river waiting to push through.
But the dam stops them every time.
A masquerade, a door shut--things piling up behind it.
Sometimes the smallest thing threatens to open the door.
But I stop it.
I'm a good girl.
Good girls don't do that.
The drive is silent. No radio, no need. My mind replays the scene over and over. The bump in the produce section. Her fake laugh as she apologized. The way she backed away with a dirty look when I said nothing--when I didn't smile back.
I couldn't.
