Page 1 of The Blue Rose
ONE
ASTER
When you’re a serial killer, it’s so easy to get caught. One wrong move, and you're in jail for the rest of your life. Well, when you grow up with serial killers as your parents, you learn not to make the same mistakes.
I’m sitting in my foldable chair, one leg over the other, holding the newspaper of my last kill. Singing in my brown leather apron, “Don’t You Want Me Baby” to my newest victim who fell privy into my web of lies.
Not taking my eyes off of the page, “She looks so beautiful laid under the tree, for all to see.” I turn the paper over so my newest lamb can see, “This will be you soon enough, gaining the attention you would never get alive.” My newest lamb starts wiggling her body trying to get out of her restraints. I ignore her and go back to my paper. When the papers write an article of my latest kill, I always make sure to grab a copy. Never reading it until a new lamb is on my table. I like to reminisce while I get ready to slaughter my next lamb.
My cool down period is between two to three months, before I start hunting again. The newspaper sits in its special spot with the rest of them. In the bottom drawer of my dresser in my bedroom. When I know it is the night to prepare my lambs, Itake the paper out and place it on the workbench in my shed, ready for when I strap my lambs down. It’s a pre-kill ritual of mine, one that I must do, ensuring nothing will go wrong, during and after.
The room we’re in is dimly lit with a light hanging directly above the stainless steel table. I cover the walls in plastic when bringing my lambs in for the slaughter.
Doing this assures for an easy clean up.
I started building this workplace when I was given the home. I tore down the barn where my first victim was rescued, I didn’t want any reminders of that night, or my parents. It is half a mile down the dirt road leading past my house. Looking like a normal shed from the outside, just a little bigger. When you walk inside there are tools lined up, for when I get to work. Any normal person would use these tools for handy work, or a project to build something. I also use these tools for my side hobbies, but they’re mostly used for my little lambs.
After my parents were caught and I was of age I was given a letter telling me instructions only I would understand, revealing to me where they hid it all. The letter read:
Our Little Fox,
The time has come, where you are finally ready to finish what we tried to start on your tenth birthday. Oh how we wish we could’ve seen you grow, be there to help shape you into the man we hope you have become. We know you were always watching us work when you were supposed to be sleeping. Even though you never got to have a lamb for yourself, we hope all the watching paid off. Weleft you the house you grew up in and all the pelt from the lambs. There should be enough pelt that you won’t have to ever worry about anything ever again. Take the pelt to the local trapper and get the money in cash. Remember what we taught you about using cash over credit cards. We never meant to leave you, your birthday gift is what ultimately got us caught. Please don’t blame yourself, it is not your fault and we hope you know that. We love you dearly and just remember we are always with you.
Love, Mom and Dad
I broughteverything I could to a pawn shop per their instructions and turned it to cash. I took what they said to heart, and blamed my birthday gift. The first lamb that got away, the one that got my parents caught is how I chose my lambs after that.
You never forget your first.
I look down at my newest victim, stroking my fingers across her face.
With her mouth taped and tears streaming from her bloodshot eyes, she had never looked more beautiful. Blood is leaking through her clothes where I have made my cuts. Her dark hair is draped over the edge of the table where she lays strapped to. Her arms are bound on either side of her head above her. Her feet are spread apart and fastened down as well. There is one last buckle going over her stomach securing her nice and tight for the slaughter.
My god she is beautiful, struggling for her life.
With my radio playing in the background, I can barely hear her muffled cries through the tape that covers her pretty mouth.It really is a pity I can’t hear her screams. I turn off the radio and stalk back over to the table, looking over her fear struck face. I reach down and rip the tape off and immediately she spews profanities at me.
“You’re a fucking psycho, I trusted you.”
“Ah now, that was your first mistake, trusting this fox in sheep’s clothing”
It’s not hard to trust a pretty face like mine. Most people use their looks to their advantage in life, I’m no different. I use mine to lure my victims to me, promising them a night they’re never going to forget and one I never will as well.
“Please, please”. She begs “My family…” She chokes on a sob as she struggles to finish her sentence. “They’ll be looking for me.”
“Now, Sasha, why would you lie to me? I know that isn’t true; you’re an orphan just like me”. I lift my knife up, looking at my warped reflection in the blade, then point it directly at her. “I hate liars.”
I choose my victims wisely, just as I was taught. Target women who won’t be missed when they go missing. They have to have no one. The prey I prefer to hunt are the curvy, thick girls, mostly because their insecurities feed the beast in me.
Bigger girls usually have this preconception that a man who looks like me would never even look their way. With the way the media in this world portrays and sells beauty, they believe it. So, this makes the bigger girls easier to capture. All of their defenses are down, the moment I give them any type of attention, whether it be a look or even a simple hello. Complimenting and talking to them makes it easier to bring them back to my shed to enjoy the slaughter.
I usually meet them at a run down bar, where there are no cameras. Give them the number to my burner phone, take them out on another date to secure their trust in me. I Invite them back to my place, always being the one to drive, and never giving them my address. Once we get to my place, I park in front of my home and just as they’re turning to get out of the car, I slip the needle full of ketamine into their neck. Then I drive to the shed and begin my work.
I have three rules when hunting and killing:
I never kill men.
