Page 27 of Mayhem and Minnie

Images suddenly assail my mind. I see this little thing happily dive into a stinky-ass dumpster to hunt for food, then eating whatever disgusting thing she found.

I cough/gag.

“There will be no more dumpster diving,” I tell her sternly after I get myself under control. “There will be no more eating from the floor. Is that clear?”

She looks at me with confusion.

“Is that clear, Minnie?” I narrow my eyes at her.

She seems taken aback by my question, but she eventually nods.

Good. At least she’s susceptible to training. But she’ll have to undergo extensive detox and a succession of thorough baths before I can allow her anywhere near me or my house. It’s bad enough that I need to have my car disinfected and throw my coat out.

I rather liked that coat.

The more she behaves like a little heathen—a rather sweet heathen, though—the more I think that perhaps I should just give in and have her.

Though she has a tendency to drive me mad, I have to admit to myself that she is rather…entertaining. And that’s what I’ve been missing from my life.

Always the same routine. The same shows. The same work.

Always the same type of victim.

I strive to avoid disorder.

I don’t like people, much less the body parts of people.

I conduct my kills rather clinically, in a manner that ensures the most amount of pain before death. After, I simply dump the bodies in my furnace and turn them into dust—which, of course, I keep in my prized cellar.

Perhaps it’s time to switch things up a little. Though I admit it would not be an easy feat to achieve, since I’m rather set in my ways. Despite that, something within me tells me that this is special—a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

She’s everything I hate and everything I avoid.

I tilt my head to the side.

Yes, I would not torture her.

The thought of her in pain doesn’t sit right with me. But I could get creative. I could kill her in a way that would satisfy my craving for control but also one that would not harm one single hair off her body—I’m rather fond of that luscious dark hair of hers. And her eyes.

The thought of this new project awakens my previously defunct excitement.

She might struggle.

My lips curl up.

Ah, I do love a good challenge.

Besides, maybe I would like her to struggle.

A little.

That familiar hum in my veins appears anew, and joy I had previously forgotten pokes its head to the surface—or, perhaps, the type I’ve never experienced before.

She eats the last bite of the dirty floor food before she leans back in her seat, a satisfied smile on her face. Her teeth are showing. They’re white and perfectly formed. But there’s also something…unseemly.

“You have something stuck between your teeth,” I mention, doing my best to keep the disgust out of my voice.

Yes, another thing to add to the never-ending list of things I hate.

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