Page 16 of The Blood we Crave

Not one to be very optimistic, I doubt it. Highly.

I press the Start button on the recorder, laying it back on my tray and checking twice to make sure the red light is on in the upper-right-hand corner. I’ve grown from my earlier mistakes when I was still trying to figure out what I liked. My routine. My process. After hitting the wrong button with one of my earlier victims, I now double-check just in case.

What is a concerto without an orchestra?

A killer with his victims’ screams?

Once the sound of Lacrimosa, peering down at the hunk of fat lying on it. He is sweating. An unnatural amount, so much I think he might have hyperhidrosis. I’m not a doctor yet, but I have killed six people up to this point, and none of them have perspired this much.

“Walter, what happened to that quarterback physic you love to remind people about? There isn’t any possible way you’d be able to lead anyone for a short walk, let alone a state championship.”

I take my time to look at his barely covered body. Brittle hair coats his chest and stomach, a large gut, and he has a deep red face that reminds me of a balloon ready to explode. He makes me sick, a waste of space, and to think he considered himself like me.

He could never be me. He could never do the things I do at the level I am capable of. The cops were weeks away from snatching him up and throwing away the key. It would take federal investigators a lifetime to even catch a whiff of me.

“How do you know me?” he puffs out from his dry mouth. “Do you want money? I can—”

“Please don’t embarrass yourself. You couldn’t afford to pay me off.”

I spread my arms wide at the space around me, from the custom floors to the ridiculously priced statue in the corner. This basement, my slice of harmony, costs more than most make in a lifetime. “Look around you—does it look like I need your money?”

My fingers grip the handle of the hunting knife, pointing the tip downward towards Walter’s face. I drag just the edge along the side of his cheek, the blade so sharp I can feel it cutting through his grainy beard hair.

“However, because I am not a complete monster, I will answer your first question.” The hair stands up on the back of my neck as I feel how easy it would be to gut him like a pig and watch the blood pour from his stomach. How very simple it is to end his life, just like that, with a flick of my wrist.

Power surges through my veins. Control and desire swirl together inside of me, creating the best natural high one can experience. There is no better feeling than this. Knowing that I am in full control of his fate, knowingheis at my mercy. That he is impotent and pathetic. Beneath me in every way. He will never be what I am.

“Shit—” he hisses. “Please, don’t do this. I have a daughter.”

The urge had threatened to pull me under, the overwhelming sensation of everything around me so intense I hadn’t noticed my blade had dug into his cheek just enough to draw blood.

“Jessica,” I say, taking a breath and pulling the edge from his face. “Right? She’ll be fifteen in December.”

His eyes flare, shining bright and ghastly with fear. It swallows his entire body, and it fills me with warmth. I want him to die afraid, scared, and shaking. Right before he draws his last breath, he will know what real death looks like. How true fear tastes on his tongue.

“Don’t you touch her,” he grates out, jerking against the binds that he has no chance of getting out of. I learned the art of knot tying when I was very young, one of the many lessons my father had taught me that I had perfected for myself.

My father was good at what he did.

I was the best.

“I would never. Teenagers, children in general, are for an acquired group of spineless people.” I smirk down at him. “Someone like you. Isn’t that right, Walter?”

I twirl the blade in between my fingers, focusing my attention on his hand. I lift the heavy limb, inspecting the lines and scars, my gloved fingers trying to find a starting point.

“What? What are you—”

“Do not waste my time,” I hiss, grinding my teeth as I bend one of his fingers in an impossible direction. “I hate liars, Walter. Try not to make this worse on yourself by aggravating me.”

He shouts in pain, but I ignore it, releasing my grip on the chubby digit before bringing the knife to the tip of his index finger.

“How do I know you?” I hum, feeling my toes curl as I dig the edge deep enough that it slips beneath all the layers of skin, and then I start to shave backward, slowly making sure the slicing is accurate. “I know you because you think you’re like me. Tell me, you love your daughter so much that you kill girls who look just like her? Is that how you show your love, Walter?”

I’m not sure he hears me, not over the blinding sound of his screams as searing pain radiates through his body. The hands are full of nerves, unfortunately for him, so he feels every single inch of the blade slipping through his flesh.

Blood pours from the wound like a fountain. Gushing and leaking onto the metallic table below, it makes visibility difficult, but I can feel the pull of his skin on the knife. I keep my hand steady, not a wobble or shake in sight as I bare his muscles and bones to the open air.

All those protected nerves attacked by the chill air down here must be miserable. I almost wish I could feel bad for him. Almost. The delicious screams of agony make my ears ring, vibrating the drums inside.

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