Bones (La Douleur Folle #1)

Prologue

I was always fascinated by skulls. The way they look when the skin and muscle are peeled away; the solid, smooth feel of them when they're cleaned properly makes my body ache. I wouldn't say that I'm sexually aroused by the actual skulls, it's more the detachment from the human body, the taking off the multitude of layers that makes my cock hard. I don't have many yet, but I'm getting there. Slow and steady wins the race, and all that jazz.

I'm not a serial killer.

No matter how much everyone wants to believe it, no matter how many lies are printed about me, no matter what story you choose to believe. Serial killers have a compulsion they can't control, and I am very controlled. No, I like to think that I'm just a man with a different train of thought that enjoys the macabre things in life. I like seeing how things tick, and I am absolutely elated when I get to take them apart.

As I set the skull into the cabinet that sits in my living room, I step back and smile. I have four so far, mostly women, but this is my first male skull, and it's a bit larger. That won't do. I retrace my steps and rearrange them, leaving the larger on a shelf by itself and setting the other three in equal separate spaces beneath it. It looks like the beginnings of a small pyramid; my own personal wonder of the world, and I can't help but feel proud of myself.

I never started with animals; another thing to distinguish me from the serial killer cliché. My home is impeccable, and there are no traces of death to be found except for what's inside the now closed glass doors of this cabinet. I like to bring people here and show them my art, letting them believe that these are props that I've found online instead of beautiful moments of distraction that have kept me company for the past few years.

I only ever needed what I've come to call a distraction four times now. The times I would act upon the urge was never the same allotment as the last. It was just when I felt it was needed. Pushing my pecan-brown, medium length hair away from where it's fallen into my eyes, I linger for just a moment longer before I walk into the kitchen and turn my coffee machine on.

Although I know it's not good for me in the long run, it's how I start my day. I can't find it in myself to put energy drinks into my body, so I compromise and allow myself one cup of coffee a day. The sound of the steady drip as it pours from the small spout of the machine gives me a moment to close my eyes and think. It had been months since I had collected that skull, but I didn't have the urge to clean it until just the night before. When I went to bed, I set it on the side-table and stared at it, a secret smile on my face, until my body relaxed enough allowing me to sleep.

That was something I wasn't every good at—sleeping. It wasn't what I did that would keep me awake at night, but rather it was what I couldn't do. I sometimes wished it would be easier for myself and everyone around me if I stayed inside of my home. I've even had thoughts of laying brick against the windows and the doorways to prevent me from getting out or from anyone else ever getting in.

But there would be time for that later. For now, I had to fill my cabinet, and when that was done, I would spare anyone else the same fate of the imbeciles that had been tragically trusting enough to come home with me. Some I had spared for the most part, but those four—I needed them to stave off the hunger inside of me. I was creating a beautiful sonata of the macabre for the safety of countless others, and when my cabinet was full, I would stop.

It would be easy to stop, I imagined as the drip of coffee sputtered and died. I never put cream or sugar in it, I didn't want to add to the shit I was already putting into my body. I opened my eyes, grabbed the dark green mug, and put the bitter brew to my lips, sipping slowly as I walked back into the living room and sat down on my opulent leather couch staring back at the grinning skulls.

Usually the urge doesn't hit me once I've cleaned one of my newer pieces, but as I've mentioned, this one isn't new. It's a few months old, and it's finally being displayed where it belongs. It's not my masterpiece though; that still walks in the daylight, or maybe in the moonlight depending on when I manage to run into her. So far, I've learned her name, her age, and through idiotic small talk each time we've chatted briefly, the things she happens to like.

She belongs in my cabinet; part of her does. On the top shelf, perhaps a majestic crown of sorts to always remind me that I was able to achieve the acquisition of my most prized piece for my display.

I'll look for her today. Maybe I'll find her, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll spend the day and night wandering the city aimlessly looking for someone else to place in my cabinet in lieu of her head, but there are things that I know are true. Things that anyone who deems to whisper my story needs to understand and believe.

I can stop anytime I want to.

I am not a serial killer.