The Blue Rose
1. Aster
ONE
ASTER
W hen you’re a serial killer, it’s so easy to get caught. One wrong move, and you're in jail for the rest of your life. Well, when you grow up with serial killers as your parents, you learn not to make the same mistakes.
I’m sitting in my foldable chair, one leg over the other, holding the newspaper of my last kill. Singing in my brown leather apron, “Don’t You Want Me Baby” to my newest victim who fell privy into my web of lies.
Not taking my eyes off of the page, “She looks so beautiful laid under the tree, for all to see.” I turn the paper over so my newest lamb can see, “This will be you soon enough, gaining the attention you would never get alive.” My newest lamb starts wiggling her body trying to get out of her restraints. I ignore her and go back to my paper. When the papers write an article of my latest kill, I always make sure to grab a copy. Never reading it until a new lamb is on my table. I like to reminisce while I get ready to slaughter my next lamb.
My cool down period is between two to three months, before I start hunting again. The newspaper sits in its special spot with the rest of them. In the bottom drawer of my dresser in my bedroom. When I know it is the night to prepare my lambs, I take the paper out and place it on the workbench in my shed, ready for when I strap my lambs down. It’s a pre-kill ritual of mine, one that I must do, ensuring nothing will go wrong, during and after.
The room we’re in is dimly lit with a light hanging directly above the stainless steel table. I cover the walls in plastic when bringing my lambs in for the slaughter.
Doing this assures for an easy clean up.
I started building this workplace when I was given the home. I tore down the barn where my first victim was rescued, I didn’t want any reminders of that night, or my parents. It is half a mile down the dirt road leading past my house. Looking like a normal shed from the outside, just a little bigger. When you walk inside there are tools lined up, for when I get to work. Any normal person would use these tools for handy work, or a project to build something. I also use these tools for my side hobbies, but they’re mostly used for my little lambs.
After my parents were caught and I was of age I was given a letter telling me instructions only I would understand, revealing to me where they hid it all. The letter read:
Our Little Fox,
The time has come, where you are finally ready to finish what we tried to start on your tenth birthday. Oh how we wish we could’ve seen you grow, be there to help shape you into the man we hope you have become. We know you were always watching us work when you were supposed to be sleeping. Even though you never got to have a lamb for yourself, we hope all the watching paid off. We left you the house you grew up in and all the pelt from the lambs. There should be enough pelt that you won’t have to ever worry about anything ever again. Take the pelt to the local trapper and get the money in cash. Remember what we taught you about using cash over credit cards. We never meant to leave you, your birthday gift is what ultimately got us caught. Please don’t blame yourself, it is not your fault and we hope you know that. We love you dearly and just remember we are always with you.
Love, Mom and Dad
I brought everything I could to a pawn shop per their instructions and turned it to cash. I took what they said to heart, and blamed my birthday gift. The first lamb that got away, the one that got my parents caught is how I chose my lambs after that.
You never forget your first .
I look down at my newest victim, stroking my fingers across her face.
With her mouth taped and tears streaming from her bloodshot eyes, she had never looked more beautiful. Blood is leaking through her clothes where I have made my cuts. Her dark hair is draped over the edge of the table where she lays strapped to. Her arms are bound on either side of her head above her. Her feet are spread apart and fastened down as well. There is one last buckle going over her stomach securing her nice and tight for the slaughter.
My god she is beautiful, struggling for her life.
With my radio playing in the background, I can barely hear her muffled cries through the tape that covers her pretty mouth. It really is a pity I can’t hear her screams . I turn off the radio and stalk back over to the table, looking over her fear struck face. I reach down and rip the tape off and immediately she spews profanities at me.
“You’re a fucking psycho, I trusted you.”
“Ah now, that was your first mistake, trusting this fox in sheep’s clothing”
It’s not hard to trust a pretty face like mine. Most people use their looks to their advantage in life, I’m no different. I use mine to lure my victims to me, promising them a night they’re never going to forget and one I never will as well.
“Please, please”. She begs “My family…” She chokes on a sob as she struggles to finish her sentence. “They’ll be looking for me.”
“Now, Sasha, why would you lie to me? I know that isn’t true; you’re an orphan just like me”. I lift my knife up, looking at my warped reflection in the blade, then point it directly at her. “I hate liars.”
I choose my victims wisely, just as I was taught. Target women who won’t be missed when they go missing. They have to have no one. The prey I prefer to hunt are the curvy, thick girls, mostly because their insecurities feed the beast in me.
Bigger girls usually have this preconception that a man who looks like me would never even look their way. With the way the media in this world portrays and sells beauty, they believe it. So, this makes the bigger girls easier to capture. All of their defenses are down, the moment I give them any type of attention, whether it be a look or even a simple hello. Complimenting and talking to them makes it easier to bring them back to my shed to enjoy the slaughter.
I usually meet them at a run down bar, where there are no cameras. Give them the number to my burner phone, take them out on another date to secure their trust in me. I Invite them back to my place, always being the one to drive, and never giving them my address. Once we get to my place, I park in front of my home and just as they’re turning to get out of the car, I slip the needle full of ketamine into their neck. Then I drive to the shed and begin my work.
I have three rules when hunting and killing:
I never kill men.
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, I have to 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 the burn 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.
I cut her out of the pink crop top with the words “ironically hot” on them. Her breasts are bare for me to see. At least she wore a fitting shirt for her last time with me, she was anything but hot.
Cutting off her booty shorts next, I see she wore a red G-string just for me. A lamb falling perfectly into this fox's trap. A date she was expecting but would never get, when she arrived hours earlier. Poor thing, probably thought she was finally going to get laid, little did she know I would lay her down forever.
I smirk, slipping them off and putting those on my desk next to her rose.
All of my lambs get their own roses. I take a white rose before every kill and place the petals into blue dyed water. I place it onto my work station and it sits there while I break them apart, and it watches as I put them back together. The slaughter, and the resurrection. The perfect circle of life and death.
After cutting off her clothing and cleaning off all the blood, it's time to sew her back up. All of my lambs must go out of this world the way they came in, and it’s my job to lead them there. Grabbing my sutures, I start to stitch all the wounds I have inflicted. I cut them up to see the pain in their eyes, to revel in it, but I have to stitch them back and clean them up to paint them anew. Having open wounds ruins the integrity of my canvas.
It would be a shame to ruin my favorite part.
Starting with the face first, I close her eyes and repaint them on. Then, I add blush and contour with some highlights, turning my lambs into the person they wished they could be. Turning around to my work bench, I grab the bite block and place it in her mouth; the one a dentist uses to keep their patients mouth open. Next I take out every single tooth, placing them on the instrument tray next to me, then close her mouth.
Reaching backwards to my workbench, opening the small top drawer where I keep all the red lipstick, I select the color that is going to be the perfect finishing touch for my little lamb. I always use red on my lambs because it is the color whores wear. All of them are whores, wanting and pleading to have me, and never succeeding. So it is only fitting for their true selves to be revealed.
My mother taught me early that all women are evil. All have an agenda, a reason for batting their eyes and saying sweet words. She warned, to never give them the chance to entrap you in their smile, before that can happen, end them. She always wore a nude lip, that was her signature color. My mother was a woman of integrity, always loyal to one man. So giving my lambs the opposite color to what my mother wore, is a testament to her.
Next I start to paint her dress on, it is a dark green dress coming down to her knees, with lace sleeves. Bending down into the bottom drawer of my workbench, I pull out the foldable fans. Placing the fans around her body, so the paint hardens faster. As the paint dries, I take the rose out of the dye, placing it into a new empty vase to dry. Then, I start to gather her clothing and throw it onto the plastic on the floor. After all of the evidence is gathered on the floor, I wrap up the plastic. I open the door to my incinerator, throw it all in there, shut the door, and turn it on. By time the evidence is burning, the paint is all baked on, it is time to turn off the fans and flip her over.
Walking back I touch her skin to make sure the paint has fully dried and turn her over to finish the dress on the other side. I take my time, being mindful of each stroke I place along her skin, striving for the subtle imperfection of true clothing. When I’m done, my lamb truly looks as though she’s ready to go out once more.
Turning the fans back on, I let her back dry. I walk to the sink to wash all the tools and dry them, then put them back where they belong. Once everything is back in its designated spot I go back to my lamb to check on the paint. I lightly tap around her body to assure it is all dried, then flip her back over.
Moving down to her feet I start painting on ivory flats to compliment the dress I just finished. Setting my paintbrush down, I admire the feminine quality I’ve given my little lamb. One she didn’t possess in her desperation when she was alive.
Grabbing my handheld blowtorch that sits on the workbench behind me, I grab her hand, and burn off all of her fingerprints. I want my little lambs to forever be Jane Doe’s, forgotten by everyone, but me.
The last thing I do to her, that I do to all my victims, is take three petals from the rose, and place them on my workbench. Then, I open the second drawer taking out super glue to take two petals and glue one petal to each eye. You could say this is my signature.
The eyes are the windows to the soul, and covering her eyes ensures that I was the last one to see her soul… Leave her body.
After I finish remaking her, I lay her to rest fully by taking her hands and have her hold them over her heart. Then I add glue onto the stem of the rose, placing it into her folded hands.
The authorities still haven’t figured out why I do this. It’s simple, the blue rose means unreachable love in some cultures, and in others it means devotion, trust, and love. Well my lambs give me just that, but I will never return it. My heart is just always out of reach, but they don’t accept that, until my knife is plunged into theirs.
The leftover petal is then placed into a book with something I took from her and her name written underneath.
I place the book back in its hiding spot, in the vents under my workspace. I added the vents when I was reconstructing the space to be mine. Mom and dad may not have needed cool air to work, but I do. Before walking over to my little lamb, and gathering her into my arms, I whisper in her ear. “You look beautiful little lamb, now it is time for the world to see you”
Striding over to my 67’ dark blue Chevelle, I place her body into the trunk of my car. Close the trunk, hop in the front, roll the windows down, blast the radio, place my hands around the wheel, and drive to one of my dump locations. Each location is always different from the last, so the cops can’t stake it out to catch me. They will never know where I’ll be dumping next, just that it is always secluded so I never get caught.