Page 2 of The Blue Rose
I never kiss, touch, or fuck my lambs.
My lambs are never allowed into my home.
I will never break these rules.
Her eyes widen in fear, and she starts to ramble more lies.
“No! No, that isn’t true, my family loves me, and-”
I take the knife and slice it slowly across her thigh, eliciting a bloodcurdling scream and making my point evident. I hate liars and I hate it even more when my lambs lie while I’m trying to do my work.
“Now I know I just told you not to lie to me, but here we go again. Another lie, I don’t want to hurt you”
She spits in my face and laughs in a mocking way. “Ha! Now who’s telling lies?”
I click my tongue several times, turning to grab the cloth from behind me off my workbench, wiping the spit off of my face. “No not a lie Sasha I don’t want to hurt you, Ihaveto hurt you, there is a difference” It was engraved in me at a young age, you could say I was groomed for this. Killing is like breathing for me, it keeps me alive.
While most serial killers start killing at a young age, and usually with animals, I did not. My mother would watch scary movies with me, pointing out everything that would prepare me for my first kill with them. Then, while they were slaughtering their victims, I would sneak out to the shed and watch through the hole I made. I never got to kill with my parents, but I eventually had my first and nothing has been the same. Nothing will ever quench my thirst for blood like my little lambs.
All the blood leaves her face, and she turns as white as a ghost. “I don’t understand, why? Why me, what did I do?!” she screams, trying to hold back her cries. “I thought you liked me, I thought you wanted me?”
This is the best part, when they start to ask why me, and all I do is smile.
She looks absolutely petrified and stutters, “I know you’re not whoever,” she bobs her head up and down at me. “This is.”
I brush her hair out of her face. “Oh but that is where you are wrong, I am everything you see before you, my dear lamb, and I do want you…” I bring my face towards her so she can feel my breath as I whisper, “On my table, under my knife.”
She spews venom from her eyes. “Don’t call me that, you fucking psycho, just let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone. Ever.”
“Oh, my little lamb, I am never letting you go, that’s why they call me The Morbid Monet.”
Her eyes widen in fear, as she recognizes the name that the media has given me. The notorious Massachusetts killer, thirty-two victims, and still counting. “Nooo, please N-” she screams and I place the tape back over her mouth stifling her screams and continue singing my song to myself and slicing up her perfect little body.
I cut her with a hospital grade scapel, my movements precise and my slices just deep enough for my little lamb to feel theburn of pain. The way I cut makes the authorities and media think I must be a doctor or at least have medical training. Their ignorance makes it easier for me. I am not a doctor, nor do I have any ties to one. I learned restraint and control with practice, eventually becoming as good as a surgeon.
Perhaps I missed my calling, though I’d argue I have more fun.
I climb on top of her and watch her eyes widen in fear. She tries, and fails to buck me off of her. Little that will do when I’m straddling her and she’s tied down with no escape.
“Shhh, hush now, it’s okay” I caress her head, trying to soothe her. “You will soon meet your maker, and never have to worry about this fox ever again.”
I bring my knife up, look her in the eyes, savoring the fear in them. I take a deep breath and whisper, “Goodnight Sasha”.
I bring my knife down into her heart, ending her life. I always end my lambs lives by plunging a knife into their heart to show I do not have one. The meaning behind it is just for me.
When her body goes limp beneath me, I get off.
I turn back on the radio, “I Will Survive” comes on and I chuckle at the irony.
