Page 47 of Fractured

Killing with a gun may be effective, but it’s not my preferred method. Strangulation and blunt force trauma are more my style, but I can’t say I’d pick one over the other. Maybe next time, I’ll try a knife… there’s so many other weapons to choose from. I’m sure, eventually, I’ll find the right fit for me. The perfect combination to give me the highest thrill when killing someone.

I let out a sigh and stand from his lap. I need to get cleaned up and back to Vander before he throws an even bigger shit fit.

seventeen

The plastic crinkles under my feet as I walk away from my third kill. When I reach the edge of it, I pause, bending down to remove the booties from my feet. I leave them on the plastic and step onto the cement flooring. This way, if there was any blood on the bottom of the booties, it won’t be tracked through the room.

I take my time walking across the expanse to where the other plastic sheet sits. Without the booties, my heels make a sharp sound with each step. There’s a strange erratic pulling within me. Normally after a kill, a sense of calm comes over me. It satiates the darkness within me, almost lulling it into a hibernating state. But this time, it didn’t happen. I feel unsettled.

If patterns of my previous kills carried over, then I should be floating on clouds right now. Riding a high like none other. Instead, my darkness is snapping at me, lunging in an effort to sink its teeth into me in a demand to give it what it wants. I’m left at a loss for what that could be, though. The only thing I can think of is that the kill was just too quick… fucking hell. If that’s the case, then my darkness is an even bigger monster than I thought.

I reach the clean plastic area and slip my shoes off. This area is way smaller than the plastic covering I just left. It only juts out from the wall a few feet. Just enough space for me to keep my dirty clothes on one side, and my clean clothes on the other.

My hand reaches out to move my shoes, but I notice a fine misting of blood covering it. I didn’t even realize I was sprayed. The kill was so all-consuming, other details didn’t compute. That’s not good… what if someone was trying to sneak up on me at a vital moment and I didn’t notice because I wasn’t paying attention. Fuck. If my stalker knew about that, I wouldn’t be able to live it down. He might even lose all hope in me, thinking I’m too incompetent to learn the things he’s trying to teach me.

With the thought, I spin around, searching my surroundings for anything I may have missed while I was distracted. I study each and every shadow, making sure they aren’t hiding anything, and once I’m confident I’m alone, I turn back around.

Damn it, Raven. You need to be smarter than this.

I reach for the wet wipes I brought and wipe up the blood on my hands and arms. Then I take off my shirt and throw it onto an empty space of plastic. My pants shortly follow and I’m left standing in my panties. It’s a matching black lacey set that could be considered more visual than practical.

I’m careful not to touch anything else with my hands since I got more blood on them while taking off my clothes. So once again, I find myself using the wipes to clean it off. For shits and giggles, I grab a fresh wipe and swipe it over my hair. It comes back smeared with blood. A loud groan escapes me and my head tilts back in exasperation.

So much for putting my hair up to keep it from getting bloody. You know what, killing is dirty work. How the fuck can my stalker expect me to keep all the evidence contained? Oh, I know. Keep everything long distance and do it from far away with a sniper rifle. I bet that would make him happy.

I throw up my middle finger in the hopes that he feels the fuck you through the universe. Take that, motherfucker. Now, I’m all kinds of worked up again. The darkness is fighting even harder to be given what it wants with my increasing aggravation.

An exasperated huff leaves me, and the tip of my tongue slowly traces my bottom lip, picking up a drop of blood splatter as it travels. The warm, tangy flavor of iron instantly calms my racing, jittery nerves. A sense of peace falls over me.

How strange that the taste of blood is the thing that my darkness was desiring tonight. Is it just that it wanted the physical taste of a kill? Or is that what it needs when the kill was too quick? Something I’ll have to experiment with. Too bad my darkness doesn’t come with an owner’s manual.

Either way, I’m glad I've finally found a sense of calm. I have no idea how long it will last this time; I’m just grateful for the break in the constant, pulling need to satiate this unknown hunger within me.

I marvel once again at how I thought I was normal once… well, normal for me. How it was easy back then to push off the need consuming me, driving me to kill. Everything changed after I was unable to stop myself the first time. After the second time, I realized there was no going back. Now, I’ve killed my third victim.

I suppose I’m considered a serial killer now… I’ve finally found a name for that hidden darkness inside me.

Killing has become a drug I can’t live without. I smile at the realization that I’m no longer trying to keep that part of me separate. I’ve finally accepted what I am. Most people would be horrified by what I am. But I’m not. And that’s okay. Because I’m not normal; I’m perfectly me.

The sharp bite of a knife’s edge presses to my neck, and my spine stiffens in surprise. How did I miss hearing someone walking up behind me? I just lectured myself over not paying attention to my surroundings, and then I go and get lost in my thoughts. There really isn’t any hope for me. I get lost in the action of killing, in the mere memory of it, while even fantasizing of it. We'll just have to figure out a solution, because I don’t see myself being able to change this flaw.

I can’t be sure who it is behind me, but I’m fairly certain it’s my stalker. Who else could it be?

“Close your eyes and keep them shut. If you turn around, I’ll kill you.” The voice is low and gravelly in my ear. There’s a hint of familiarity to it, just enough to make me think they are trying to disguise their voice. I’ve had a suspicion that my stalker would insert himself into my life at some point. But with so many new men that I’ve met recently, there’s really no way for me to know who it could be with any certainty.

Prickles of danger skim my skin like a gentle caress. It raises goosebumps in its wake, and I have to snap a band of control around the shivers of excitement trying to make an appearance. Afterall, I don’t want to get stabbed by the knife pressed against my neck.

The ice cold blade, pressed against my skin with care, is the first kiss my stalker has given me. At least that I know of. He shows affection in the sweetest of ways. Our best flirting is always born in the most violent of ways.

I stand frozen, waiting in anticipation for what he’ll say next. Death and I have a complicated relationship. I enjoy giving death to others like a gift, I even enjoy flirting with it from time to time. But I in no way want to embrace death’s sweet kiss permanently, which is what will happen if I’m not careful.

My stalker exudes danger and malice. He may be obsessed with me, but that doesn't mean he can go against his core self. That knife he’s holding to me isn’t just a prop. It’s not a tool he’s using just to threaten me with. The sharp blade is just an extension of my stalker.

You can make an argument that there’s no way I could know this. But my intuition is a fine-tuned tool. I’ve been getting to know my stalker more and more each day. I know who he is in the things he says, in what he doesn’t say, in the things that force him to show emotions. His very aura is beating down on me, an entity that refuses to be ignored. His darkness has been let out to play, and it wants its presence to be known.

Holy shit. That’s why he’s been encouraging me to let my darkness out. He’s been through the same thing.

The heat of his body grows as he gets closer, his face right next to mine, the knife never wavering. “Hands on the wall, Raven,” he commands.

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