Chapter 2 of a previous work, Murderers Anonymous, which made the rounds and was rejected by Big 5 Publishers. Looking to revise and resubmit in the future. Check chapter 1 to get caught up to speed. Warning: Intense graphic content throughout.
Murderers are people, too.
It’s the type of headline that catches your attention. Not in a positive way, hell, not even in a negative way, but just in a way.
I study the flier in my hand, the paper worn and crinkled with yellowing edges, as if it had been previously given to someone else. Even still, the flier manages to remain bright and vibrant, an offensive color scheme of orange and yellow assaulting my eyes. Below the header is a stock photo of two men embracing, one’s head buried deeply into the other’s shoulder. Below that is the most bizarre array of questions I’d ever seen.
Are you a serial killer? Are you in need of support? Do you need someone to talk to? I continue scanning downward, the flier becoming even stranger as I realize it’s serious.
Then come to 202 Beecher Street Apartment 305 for some well-deserved therapy! The 2014 Murderers Anonymous self-help personal growth group begins Wednesday the 27th from 7 to 8:30pm.and spots are limited. Don’t deny yourself this opportunity: Self-care isn’t selfish!
I let the flier fall down to the floor. It settles near the legs of my coffee table. There’s a bug there near it, some type of beetle, and I think about stepping on it.
I imagine the beetle crawling up my nose as I sleep; its prickly legs doing their due diligence as they latch into the skin of my nostrils, propelling the creature towards its goal. It finally reaches my brain and lays its egg behind my eye before leaving as stealthily as it entered. Eventually they hatch, and the newborn beetles feast upon the spongy, deteriorated mess of my brain, chomping into chewy bits and eating their way out of my head through the back of my eyeball.
This isn’t why I want to kill it; that’s just a silly thought.
I just want to be God, even if for a moment.
I step on the beetle, leaving a nickel-sized imprint of its guts splattered on the hardwood below. I lift my foot and bring it down upon the flier, wiping a sticky trail of yellow ooze across the faces of the embracing men.
I stomp the paper for good measure before leaving the room.
In the shower, water runs down my body but I barely feel it. My mind is on the flier and its mysterious appearance. The envelope it came in had no writing upon it, meaning someone had simply come and slid it under my door. This leads me to two conclusions. Either someone was playing a prank on me, or I was being targeted.
Regardless of their intention, the arrival of the envelope and the flier it contained revealed that whoever was behind the fiasco knew one very important fact about me.
I am a serial killer.
- The action or state of forcing or being forced to do something; constraint.
- An irresistible urge to behave in a certain way, especially against one’s conscious wishes.
Synonyms: Urge, Impulse, Need, Desire, Obsession, Fixation, Addiction
I consider jerking off to alleviate my tension. One hand trails down my body, dancing along my abs, navigating through my pubic hair until it grasps my shaft, while the other (always the right), rises to my throat, seizing it.
The carotid arteries, located on either side of the neck, carry oxygen-rich blood from the heart directly to the brain. When these arteries are compressed in any way (such as by strangulation or hanging) the sudden loss of oxygen to the brain combined with the accumulation of carbon dioxide increases feelings of giddiness, lightheadedness, pleasure, and the thrill of orgasm.
Nearly one thousand people die yearly as a result of autoerotic asphyxiation. Their final battle is fought trying to blow a load.
I choke myself, the harsh grasp of the hand on my throat mirroring the motions of the hand upon my cock. I squeeze and rub both, but soon let out a frustrated sigh as I realize it’s all for naught.
I keep thinking about the flier, and it kills my libido.
34% of women and 42% of men have reported having some form of sexual dysfunction/disorder during at least one period of their lives. Typically these people report the dysfunction having an extreme adverse effect on their lives, ranging from self-esteem issues to relationship deterioration.
You’re not alone.
- The quality of being free from pretense, deceit, or hypocrisy.
Synonyms: Honesty, Genuineness, Truthfulness, Integrity
I turn the water off and exit the shower, not even bothering to dry myself as I slip into my pajama bottoms.
I look into the mirror. There are red marks on my neck where my fingers clamped down around it. When I became particularly frenzied, I’d sometimes leave sickly yellowish purple bruises on my neck.
My dark hair is tussled, my wet bangs clinging to my forehead. My once bright green eyes are dull and faded. My prominent facial features normally make me look handsome, but now the harsh angles make me look malnourished. I continue staring into the mirror.
There’s nothing staring back.
An hour later, I lay in bed, staring up at the sporadic cracks in the ceiling, tracing them as they jut out in every direction. Someone knows, I think. They know my deepest, darkest secret. The idea of prison neither new nor frightening. Now, more than ever though, it seems to be a realistic possibility.
You don’t think about the consequences of committing a murder. It’s kind of like sex, sure you’ll wear gloves and toss them out after the crime, the same thing you’d do with a condom after plugging a skank, but in the moment nothing else matters. As you’re killing someone, just like when you’re stinky, sweaty body is grinding and bucking against someone else’s, you’re lost in the moment. You’re thinking about the physical high, the adrenaline rush, and both with sex and murder, no matter how poor you are at it, you feel great and feel like a winner for doing it.
Then it ends.
Am I talking about murder or sex?
Is there a difference?
Only after the good feelings wash away does rationality return, does the reality of consequence dawn upon you. Oh, I can get caught for this. I can be imprisoned. I can get this whore pregnant; she may have already given me an STD. I may have left evidence behind.
But I’d be the playboy. I’d be the self-assured smug piece of shit who’d become immune to shame after countless disgraceful consequence-free romps.
I’m talking about murder, not actual sex.
It’s a metaphor, asshole.
For a brief period, as I stew in my thoughts, prison seems like it’s coming. Would I be able to rough it in the clink? Probably not. I’d be too scrawny to defend myself, and I’d have to resort to chomping off some thug’s cock as he pushed it towards my face in the shower. He’d kill me afterwards, no doubt, but at least upon my death I’d become a legend in that penitentiary.
We all want to be remembered, don’t we?
The conjecture is moot, however; this was no sting operation. If they knew who and where I was, they’d simply have arrested me. No time for games when dealing with suspected serial killers. An elaborate set up like this hadn’t been done by the authorities. Whoever did this didn’t want me arrested, at least not immediately, but the fact I couldn’t figure out the aim of their game was slightly disconcerting.
My concerns over the nature of the therapy group are met by a strong urge to attend the meeting.
I am fucked up.
This has to stop.
If it was hoax I could end up jailed, or even killed, but so what if I did? Did those things even matter to me?
- 1. Lack of interest, enthusiasm, or concern.
Synonyms: Indifference, Dispassion, Languor, Lethargy
What’s the point of caring if there’s nothing left to lose? In a strange way, the prospect of my life as I know it coming to an end is invigorating. I’d either attain a degree of healing or be freed from the suffering of every day existence.
So really it’s a win-win.
I continue pondering this until my eyelids finally give way to gravity’s pull and I slip into an unsound sleep, my nightmares filled with vivid images of the past.