Jun. 28, 2012

VICTIM

You like it when you’re on the prowl, and you find a little girl that fits your type. Blonde, skinny, almost eighteen, and above all things, she has to be pretty. So pretty, that you know she wouldn’t talk to you in real life. But tonight she will…

 

You pull your car up to the side of the road and ask if she needs a ride. She looks at you and thinks you’re harmless enough, just like I did. She thinks you’re sweet, like I did. And she thinks you’re being a good person. But you’re not. She’ll learn that the hard way.

 

She’s seen you around before, and she smiles, calling you by name. She thanks you, and gets into your car without another word. You smile triumphantly, as she locks her door, and you drive away. 

 

Next thing you know, she’s fighting you off her as you drag her into your, neat as a pin, home. Nothing is ever out of place, and you wait for her to compliment you on it. But she is too busy screaming, and you are too busy quieting her.

 

In a moment, she is pushed down the stairs to your torture chamber of a basement. You tell her if she’s quiet, and she does what you ask, that you will let her go. We both know that you can’t do that. She has seen your face, she knows who you are, and she must die.

 

You make her yours then, and when she cries out for you to stop, she scratches your face. You slap her off you, slamming her head into the floor as hard as you can. She moans and you black out.

 

Her body lies there in a pool of warm and sticky blood. You realize then, that you have to get it out of your house without anyone seeing you or knowing what you’ve done. You do what you always do, wrap it in plastic garbage bags and stick her in your trunk; all before the adrenaline wears off. Then you dump her body by the side of the road, miles away from where you picked her up, and you’re off to clean your basement, getting rid of the evidence. But this time, I’m smiling, because you left a piece of yourself behind. She has scratched you, so your DNA is underneath her fingernails.

 

I smile as a woman finds the body the next morning on her jog, and I am elated when the police arrive. They take her body to the coroner’s, and he finds you on her. He sends that piece of you away to be tested, and here is where you lose. That tiny piece of you will come up as a match in the database, because you have been in the system before.

 

You should’ve been more careful.

 

They find you at your house and arrest you. They take you into the station, so they can interrogate you. You’re saying that you don’t know what they’re talking about, but they have you, and they tell you so. You break down and tell them everything. You are so proud of your work. Why shouldn’t you take credit for the beauty that you think you’ve created?

 

You tell them all of what you’ve done, and give the location of me and my fellow victims.

 

I laugh as they put you in jail and don’t give you bail. I laugh as a jury of your peers finds you guilty. And I laugh as you are sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. You will rot in jail for as long as you live, and I’m glad for it.

Now I can cry as my family finally lays me to rest in our cemetery.  It is time for me to rest in peace.

 

I shouldn’t have died. My mother says, she should’ve died first, but she knew what she married. She knew the man was a criminal, and that I would become his first victim.

 

She knew my father was a monster.

 

 

THE END

 

 

Short story by: Laura Del (a.k.a. The Fiction Writer)