Page 332 of Rage

Tara

Present Day (21 Years Old)

“Do you like what you see, Tara?”

My dead psychiatrist’s voice still echoed in my mind four years after I killed him.

I hid in the darkness next to a dumpster in an alley and watched my next victim, a grungy, homeless looking man, make a drug deal with a known dealer. Reaching into my crossbody bag, I gripped the handle of my paring knife firmly in my hand. I welcomed the familiar feeling of calm to wash over me, as the need to satisfy my urge to kill threatened to overwhelm me.

He bought heroin, and I needed it for Alaina.

Alaina is my girlfriend, if I had to label whatever our relationship was. We met the night I killed Dr. Halloway; the same night I became homeless.

Unsure of where to go after I burned his house down, I wandered, just let my feet take me wherever they wanted to go. The hint of feeling I had after getting off and watching him die was short-lived, and I was back to feeling numb. I ended up here, in a shady part of Omaha, with a pretty heavy homeless population. It was the type of area that you would lock your cardoors driving through; the type of area that people avoid. It was the perfect place to satisfy my urges.

People that no one would look for, or notice they were missing… People like me.

Meeting Alaina, though, was… different.

Someone like me doesn’t have relationships; they’re impossible to keep. People want connection, closeness, intimacy; all of which I’m incapable of. Alaina is the perfect partner for me; bends to my will for the slightest bit of affection I can fake, and for her next drug fix. I must admit, though, using her body to get off and have that temporary moment of feeling anything is addicting.

Refocusing on my task at hand, I studied the drug transaction. I recognized this drug dealer. He was a complete asshole, constantly changing his prices and keeping the overage for himself. It was entertaining to watch the customers panic and struggle to find the rest of the money in their pockets or bags.

I really should kill him tonight also, but I have plans for him.

The dealer goes by “Ro-Ro” and regularly works this block. His boss is based out of the strip club about a half mile to the east, and collectively they are part of a cartel based out of South Dakota.

Holding my knife handle in between my teeth, I reached up and adjusted my ponytail, watching the homeless man walk deeper into the alley with his purchase. He stopped underneath a flickering light on the side of an abandoned building, and I held my knife again, inching out of my hiding spot, approaching him from behind.

He was distracted and his hands shook as he tried to open the little plastic bag when I made my move.

Without a sound, I swung my knife at him, stabbing him through the neck, and releasing the handle. He let out asurprised gasp, falling to his knees, dropping his drugs as he slumped over to the side. I began my ritual of humming Für Elise out loud while observing the growing pool of blood under him. Bending over, I gripped the handle of my knife that was standing straight up in the air, still lodged into his neck, and pressed my foot into his face. I used the leverage to rip my knife free from his neck. As I tore my knife from his lifeless body, a thin trail of blood spattered along the dirty brick wall of the abandoned building.

Holding my familiar paring knife up to my eye level, I studied the blood dripping from the tip of the blade. As if time was moving in slow motion, I fixated on a drop of blood, leaving a crimson trail down the cool metal and pooling on my hand. My temporary feeling of euphoria engulfed my body, but it was gone almost as soon as it came, leaving me feeling empty, shallow.

Kneeling next to his body, I swiped up the small bag of heroin for Alaina before his blood could reach it, tucking it away in my bra.

A wave of memories from when I was a child consumed me.

“How does it make you feel, Tara…?”

“I’m confused.”

“What are you confused about, Tara? You’re eleven years old. Clearly you know that something is wrong in this photograph?” Dr. Halloway pressed, gripping my chin, forcing me to look at a photograph of a naked woman on top of a man, with another behind her.

“How does it make you feel?” He asked again.

“I don’t know. I don’t feel anything.”

“Look at it.”

My eyes scanned the photo again. The woman was making an expression I tried to decipher. She had tears streaming down her cheeks, and her eyes squeezed shut.

“I don’t understand. She’s crying, but why?” I asked, confused.

“They are using her, Tara. Using her body to feel good.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

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