Page 297 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

It's like rubbing a chalkboard with your hand and I hate it.

"They’ll find a man burned like a marshmallow who matches your description—next to your wife, who’ll die in a tragic murder-suicide at your burned-out mansion.

You’ll be the coward who shot her, lit the match, and took yourself out.”

I crouch eye-level.

"Tragic, don’t you think?"

I grab the pink-handled switchblade—a gift from my honey-cakes.

Slay Responsiblyengraved on the blade.

"Now that everything’s out in the open, it’s time for your punishment."

I whistleHere Comes the Sunas I work.

A curved scalpel glides behind his eye, through fat and ligament.

He’s twitching. I’m guessing this is excruciating.

My turkey baster—modified with a wider mouth—sucks the little beauty right out.

Hmm. Greyish blue. Not the vivid blue I have, thankfully.

I got my eyes from Mama.

The second orb suffers the same fate. I set my baster down, now full of the eyes of a man who will never prey on another woman.

He’ll never walk toward another human auction, sign a release order, or tell another lie.

And soon, he won’t breathe the same air as the girls he hunted.

He can’t see me—his eyeballs are in a turkey baster—but he can hear me.

“187 cuts. One for every scratch my mother left on your son while he raped her.”

I lost count around sixty-four. Had to start again. Rookie mistake.

Mental note: work in batches of ten.

It’s cathartic, really. The chaos.

The slicing. The release.

I nick his neck with the scalpel, just enough to start a slow bleed into the bucket.

Testing a new method—so my little murder room doesn’t look like a Tarantino film.

No need to rush. We’re on my schedule now.

And it’s much tidier this way.

“You’ll be gone soon, Grandpappy.” I switch to the bone saw.

“Thank you—for having a hand in creating me. The swift arm of justice that’ll find more monsters.”

It’s louder than I expected, and for a second, I have to pause to re-angle my arms.

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