Surprisingly the blood didn’t spurt. There was where it happened – In the corner of a dimly lit alleyway, by an old swimming pool. The smell of chlorine wafting through the warm summer air.
I stood, she lay. And in my head I did a quick replay – of all that had commenced since the death of my wife had sliced though the jugular of Miss Janice Mellar.
Everything had gone according to plan – until the blood hadn’t chosen to spurt.
Awkwardly the moments stood before me – anti climatic. Although the measures these days to commit these crimes were less drastic.
The list of women whose flesh had tasted my blade isn’t much elaborate. Martha Swinston, Cassie Munro, 14-year-old Helen Swazniq, Isha Dunham, Michelle Mossburg and my dear ladies and gentlemen, Janice Mellar.
Although the last on there was the most stellar. In looks and victimology. Meh.
Yet surprisingly, oh-dear-god, the blood didn’t spurt!
Now don’t look at me miss with those accusing eyes. I completely understand, but it is this numbing remorselessness lately that has grabbed my senses. Neuroscientists say ‘haha’ that I have issues with my serotonin.
All I can say, Doctor, is that I just cannot take it in.
There are times when I have to hide and stay low. A ruthless man, by the name Detective Crossbow, is looking for the Jugular Killer. You see, he doesn’t enjoy the popularity of people like me.
It is this madness sometimes that dazzles my every bone, certified from the classic psychopathic tendencies that I have shown – where murder is my only sexual getaway and release, and the gap between my artistic acts is starting to decrease.
But don’t you take another breath, because what I felt…when the blood from her paling body did not spurt. It was a revelation; heavens were opening up to listen, while I stood by the swimming pool dirt.
My name is Alfred Kevins, and dear Janice, haven’t you figured out still? I am not the man with whom you will sleep tonight. For I am, ‘drum rolls’, a killer! A murderous victim to all theories of lust, paraphilia, distraught development and ill sociological conditions!
And even though the Scooby Doo and Gang would call me devilishly charming, sometimes the skin I live in…has me alarming.
I may have a soul, but I am never going to be a soldier, dear mother. I am in too deep in sin.
Surprisingly the blood didn’t spurt, as the blade ran one last time, cutting through my skin.
– Shaun D’souza