Sunday, May 6, 2012

Perfect

So, you wanna know how it all went down, huh? No? So, you  mean to say there's not some sick twisted part of you that's just dying to know what it was like? Not just why I did it, but what it felt like to do it? No? Oh, come on sweetness. Don't lie to me. You wanna know. All you productive sons-of-bitches that work day in and day out, pay your bills, obey the speed limits, all you mother fuckers that have 1.2 fucking kids, all of you people....you all want to know what it's like to do what I did. And if given the chance, you would trade a solid 24 hours with me, if you knew you could safely return to your humdrum lives without ever having to worry about the blood on your hands again.

Oh, did I offend you? I certainly didn't mean to. Don't shake your head. Don't call for the guard. Come here, princess. Sit back down. No need to get your purely white panties in a bunch. I'm harmless to you. Relax. I'll tell you what you want to know.

And, I'm sorry. I take back everything I said. I know you find me repulsive. Does that make you feel better?

See, I lived across the street from them. Beautiful family. Perfect really. They are.....

                     .......excuse me.....

were the kind of family that really don't exist anymore. He worked somewhere doing something that produced an income that allowed her to stay at home with the two kids. Two kids. A boy and a girl. How fucking perfect is that? They even had the white, two story house with a dog in the back yard. Beyond perfect really. The boy was in....middle school....no that's wrong. Late elementary school, I believe. Sixth grade maybe. And the girl, well she was in kindergarten. Young sweet girl.

She bled the most.

Don't gasp. You know what I did. Don't act all surprised. You read the case files. Talked to the detectives. Why act so shocked when I talk about it? Detached? Of course I'm detached. I'm a fucking psychopath for crying out loud. Jesus-Christ-on-crutches.

Ya wanna hear the story or not, Sweet Cheeks? Ok, then. Shut the fuck up.

Anyways, the girl....yeah....the little one....I'll start there.

She skipped. Never walked. Never ran. Never casually roamed about. She skipped everywhere she went. You know what they say about kids that skip like that? Yep, that's right. They're happy little fuckers. And she had to have been the happiest of them all. Every afternoon, after the bus had dropped them off at the corner of Elm and Longhorn, the son would race his little buddies to see which could reach their front porch first. See, all those little snot nosed brats lived beside one another. But, that little girl, well she would just skip. Skip. Skip. Skip. She'd wave bye to all the other little ones that ran home. But, she'd just skip.

Sweetest thing you'd ever wanna fucking see. Really. It was.

Well, one afternoon I saw her skipping home. I was sitting on my front porch, rocking in the old chair that used to be my great grandmother's. It's a dark wooden chair, and the places on the arm where she used to lay her hands is warn down from years of rubbing them with her palms right before she would yell at her son.....my grandfather. I like that chair. I've spent many afternoons and nights just sitting in it and watching the kids come and go all around me.

Get to the point? Fuck you. It's my story. Got it?

Anyways, as I was sitting in my chair, on the porch, I saw the young girl skipping her way down the sidewalk. She looked different that afternoon. It took me a minute to realize what it was. You know how it is. You see someone everyday, so that the person morphs into one image in your mind. And that image is actually a collection of shots that you've taken of them over a period of time. Same hair. Same style clothes. It gets to a point where we don't really notice them at all. Rather, our mind conjures up this image, and even when they go and change their hair or clothes, if it's not a drastic change, we just don't notice it. Our mind tells us it is the same person looking the same way. And instead of believing what our eyes are showing us, we believe what our brain tells us. That's how that woman trusted her hubby when he said he hadn't cheated, even though she walked in on some chick slobbing up and down on his dick. We don't want to believe our eyes. We prefer our mind instead.

The girl's hair was flowing all around her. It took me a few minutes before I realized it. Hell, she was almost to her house, when it dawned on me that the pigtails she normally wore were gone. Instead, her long brown hair was set free. Normally, her pigtails are done up in these colorful ribbons to match whatever pansy ass outfit her mother took out for her. How do I know the mother dressed the girl? Well, shit, no one would pick out those clothes.....not even a six year old.

But, she was skipping along, brown hair blowing all around her. And it was kind of windy that day. A nice Fall day where the leaves were changing into those bright orange Fall colors. It was so Americana perfect. Just the whole picture. The picture of youth, of her happily skipping along the sidewalk with her book bag strapped over one shoulder, and all the other kids racing around her. It was so fucking perfect.

And I fucking hate perfection. It shouldn't exist for some people and not for others.

I sat on that porch, in the rocker, and waited for the husband to come home. He always arrives....

                                       ...damn it, sorry.........

 arrived at 6 on the dot. Not a minute before or after. Now, let me ask you something, how does that happen? How does one go about arriving home at the same-exact-time every-fucking-day? That's just not plausible. Something, somewhere, has to go wrong for somebody. Traffic. Somebody catching you and saying "Oh, just one more thing...". Something. But, no. This lucky son-of-a-bitch, always arrived home at six o'clock on the dot.

And while I'm on the subject of that dildo, let me tell you...he was a piece of work. You would have thought that cocksucker had never seen an ounce of blood in his whole life. I mean, the way he started gagging, his eyes bulging out of that perfectly round shaped head of his....well, it was right comical. I took great pleasure in that sight. Really, at one point, I had to stop stabbing him, because I almost wet myself, I was laughing so hard.

That mother fucker....I swear. If you were to look up 'perfectly built' in the dictionary, you would find his mug cheesing right back at you. Brown hair, brown eyes.....broad shouldered. Only a hint of gray, right around the ears. He had these high cheek bones that probably made every split-tail cream at the pure sight of him. Ugh. And his smile, shit-me-some-tomorrow, I swear, when he smiled, he showed a set of the straightest, whitest teeth you've ever seen.

Ridiculous really. No man should have teeth that straight. And I bet he's never had a pimple in his whole life. Lucky ass bastard.

And that boy of theirs. With his shaggy hair, and his chubby torso, you could just see how he was going to grow into the spitting image of his dead. He was one of those good nature boys. I doubt he'd ever been a bully. More like that kind of student that would stand up for the retards and nerds in school. Ya know the kind, right? The kid at school that the bullies feared and the retards loved. That was him.

I fucking hated that kid. But, not as much as I hated the mother. Ugh, she was a piece of work. Dumber than a box of nails. When she saw me coming at her with my knife, she had the nerve to ask me if I was going to hurt her. Really? This bitch had to ask that. And then look surprised when I said, "Of course."

The mother had this really long blond hair. But, she wasn't a natural blond. Naturally blond hair don't turn that weird color...somewhere between magenta and black....when the blood seeps into it. I want to say she may have been a dark brunette at one point. She was tall and, of course, thin. O'le girl was more than likely a C cup. Can't say if they were real or not.

But, she had a perfect figure to go along with her perfect family.

So, to get to the grit of it. Are you sure you want to know this? I can see you've gotten comfortable, settled in over there. You seem to have gotten passed the initial horror of everything. So, you ready to hear how I was able to gut a perfect family of four? Are ya sure? Okey dokey...

I waited for the kids to get on the bus that Wednesday. There's no reason why I chose that day. But, it was there. I waited until a little after lunch time. I didn't want to have too much time pass between doing the mother in and then waiting for the kids to get off the bus. But, I wanted enough time to be able to enjoy myself with her.

No. Fuck you. What the hell? I don't get sexual satisfaction out of it. Who the hell do you think I am? Dhamer or some shit? You're one sick chick. Really.

Ugh. Anyways, I walked over to her house at about one or so. the kids get off the bus at 3. And I already knew the boy was going to come through the door before the girl was. With her skipping and all. Ya know? So, I rung her door bell and waited for her to open up.

Perfect people who lead perfect lives are rarely worried about anybody coming in and disrupting their perfect world.

And she did. She opened wide up without even looking through the peephole. She never once asked who was standing behind the heavy oak door. She didn't know me. She'd never spoken to me or even saw me in passing. So, she just opened the door. To me.

The look on her face when I slid my knife across her chest was beautiful. Astonishment. Fear. Disbelief. Those are great words that could describe her expression; but, they fall short of what I saw. I watched as she stumbled back into her foray, arms spread wide as if she was still casually opening the door with one arm and leaning against the frame with the other, searching my face for signs of anything that would tell her that this moment was not happening. I kinda laughed at that. You're bleeding. You gotta hurt somewhat. But, you still don't believe it.

Again, we rarely believe what we see.

She fell against the steps. I closed the door and knelt in front of her. She started gasping for air. I'm not sure why. I hadn't cut her that deep. I suppose it was the shock of the experience that took the wind out of her. After asking me if I was going to hurt her; she had one more question. She asked why.

Why? You people love to ask that. You perfect people. Why? Why? Why? Skip. Skip. Skip. I swear. Does it really matter? Does it matter why I killed her? Trust me, if there really was a reason that satisfied your needs, it still wouldn't make the murder less horrific, and that perfect little cunt would still be dead. So, does it matter? Really?

Why you sitting up straight like that? Less comfortable now, huh? Relax. Breathe a little. Want me to stop? No? Ok then...

I took her by the leg and drug her into the living room. Her head made these hard thumps against the stairs. I can't believe she wasn't smart enough to hold head up. I mean, that had to have hurt. Don't ya think? I guess she was in shock.

Anyways, I drug her perfect ass into the living room....or rather formal room. I say it was the formal room, because all those big, two story houses have a formal of everything. Ya know? Formal dining room. Formal living room. This room didn't have a tv, but did have a huge fire place. So, I laid her, feet first, at the foot of the hearth.  This was the time I took a good look at the slash across her front. She'd been wearing a button up pink lacy number with a tank underneath it. She had on a pair of khaki pants with high heels. Who the hell wears high heels inside? I mean....fuck....What the hell? So, I sit on her....kinda straddling her. The blood is really seeping through now. The pink has turned to a deep red on the front.

It was actually a nice color on her.

She kept asking why. That's irritating to say the least. I mean, why? That's what you're gonna ask. Let me give you a word of advice, Sweetness, if you're ever in a spot where you are staring death in the eye, do not waste your breath on stupid shit like 'why'. Save it and fight.

She never did fight. I guess perfect people don't know how to do that. I guess perfect people who are brought up in perfect worlds never have to. But, she did cry. She cried a lot. She cried so much, that instead of dragging it out like I had originally planned, I went ahead and plunged the knife into her heart. Just to shut her the fuck up.

And it was beautiful. The cracking of her chest as the knife broke through to get to her heart. The resistance the knife met before I drove it straight on. It's a neat feeling. Listen, if you ever get the chance, grab a cat or a small dog. One that can't fight free. Stab it in the heart. It's orgasmic. Honestly.

Don't look away, darlin. If you can't hang, well maybe you need to look into becoming a hair dresser or something.

What did I do next? I looked into her brown eyes. I sniffed the blood that seeped out of her mouth. I brushed her hair back from her face. See, now I like her. She's not perfect anymore. Now, the imperfections of life greeted her at the door. They took her in. She is now like the rest of us. Dirty. Imperfect.

I laid down on top of her and fell asleep. I must have been really tired. I hadn't done that much, but when your body pumps pure adrenaline like that, then you tire out very quickly. It was the boy coming home that woke me up. His gasp as he stood over me, laying on his dead mother, caught my attention. When I grabbed him, and flung him to the floor, I had just enough time to slit his throat before his sweet sister came skipping through the front door.

Do you need a moment? I can give you that. No? You good? Ok, then Buttercup, let me tell you a little bit about blood.

Blood is life. It was specifically created to sustain us of course. Do you know how much blood actually pumps through those dainty little veins of yours each day? A hella fucking lot. And when you slit someones throat, when you get them at the jugular, at the point where it pumps through, well, that shit goes everywhere. The living room was painted a dark red in no time. The walls, which were once a lavender, I think, ya know, not a deep purple, but not a light one either, well those bitches were red. Pure red. Everywhere that little shit turned and stumbled over, he sprayed a can of red paint from his neck. I guess in 6th grade they don't teach you to put pressure on a wound like that. I mean, as his sister was walking through the door, he's running around and gasping like a chicken with his head cut off. If I didn't have to act so fast and grab up the girl, I probably would've stood around and watched.

That little fucker ended up landing on top of his mother. How poetic? Right? Right?

The little girl just stood there. I had my hand on her arm, but there really wasn't a need. She just stood there. I don't think she realized what she was seeing. I picked her up and took her to the couch. I sat down and put her on my lap. She asked what happened, and I told her that mommy and big brother were now dead. I told her I killed them. And now they were probably floating around in a perfect hell made just for them.

That's when she started to cry. Big, fat sobs. Sobs that woulda broke anybody's heart. And then she asked why? Her hair was in pig tails. I'm sure that's in the police report somewhere. Not let loose like that one day. But, in pigtails. I grabbed her by one and threw her to the floor. She bled so much. I took the knife and cut her across her chest like I did her mother. She screamed. I'm surprised no one heard her. And when I went to stab her itty bitty heart, I caught it on a pump and it squirted blood high into the air. Kinda the old faithful of blood.

Was really kinda neat.

Then I laid on top of her and slept til almost time for the husband to come home. Six o'clock, remember? Not a minute before or past. And as always, in this perfect little world that I had stepped into, he arrived at six on the dot. Mother fucker. I didn't waste time with him. When he opened the door and turned to the living room, I snuck up behind him and plunged the knife into his back. That's about when all the gagging and choking started happening. Before he was able to turn around, I yanked the knife out and stabbed him in the side.

Just for your information, the blood that comes from the side is almost black. It is a creepy color, if there is such a thing.

I pushed him to the ground. Now this fella, well, he had some fight in him. Not a whole lot. He tried to sit up and take a swing, but I pushed him back down. He laid there, on his back, bleeding and coughing up blood. He looked around. Crazy really. He took the longest to die. But, right before he did, he asked why.

It's always 'why'. Can't it be enough that someone is trying to kill you? Can't it be enough that you are dying? That's enough for me. Wouldn't it be for you? But, no, that mother fucker wanted to know 'why'. And I didn't know what to tell him, except that his life....their lives....are...

                   ..........fuck......

was too perfect. And that type of nonsense can not exist in the imperfect world we live in.

Now, they've asked me how many people I've killed all together. They were real big on that when they discovered me. Still laying on top of him, mind you. That was kind of embarrassing. Counting those four, I've killed twelve in all. The detectives, the shrinks, the newspapers, all of you people want to know why. And you act like I'm crazy when I tell you the reason. But, think about it. Think about that one person that you know, rather it's at work, or school, or just around, think about that one person who always looks perfect. Perfect body. Perfect family. Perfect bank account. Perfect life. Nothing bad ever touches them. Think about them and then think about your own shitty excuse for a life.

Now, tell me again how crazy you think I am.

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