2 | Liam #3
It is moments like this, when only the dead are present, that thoughts circle my mind and desire burns inside me. Desire for a life that seems so far-fetched from my reality.
I place the body bag on the ground and put my headphones on, picking a song to keep me entertained.
I start digging while Slipknot fills my ears.
The song "Snuff," which has become one of my favorites in times like this, accompanies my task on repeat.
Once it ends, it starts again, and the passing minutes turn into hours until I have a big enough grave for her.
I reach for her body, wrapped inside the nylon bag, and pull it until it’s at the edge of the hole in the ground made for her forever home.
I close my eyes for a moment of silence, kneeling beside her as I wish her a good afterlife just in thought, before I push her inside and start filling the hole with dirt again.
It takes less time than it did to dig, and I have always noticed it’s an easier task to push soil back over dead bodies instead of digging their graves.
I wonder how many serial killers have thought this exact thing before me.
Do they ever wonder what their actions bring to their lives?
To the lives of the people who mourn the life they chose to snuff out of existence?
I wonder about it all the time, yet it doesn’t take long before I find myself again on my motorcycle, chasing another woman through a maze or a forest. Such hypocrisy, don’t you think?
When I am satisfied with how full the grave is, I smooth the ground with the back of my shovel.
But my job here isn’t done yet, even though my task is.
I like to leave them with something beautiful.
It’s my way of apologizing for my part in their demise.
Not that it matters—nothing truly matters.
I take the edge of the shovel and poke little holes in the ground all over her resting place: small little homes for every seed resting in my pocket, hand-picked for her earlier in the night.
I dig in my pocket and find a little bag of flower seeds.
I sprinkle them inside the holes I made—a little gift for her, a sign of remorse on my part.
She will never be found, but at least she will have some pretty flowers to keep her company alongside three more women who are buried here as her neighbors.
I throw some more dirt on top, covering the seeds, and with that, I walk away.
There’s nothing else I can do here; my job is done.
I take the path to my car, carrying the shovel while blasting music through my headphones.
A new song plays, and then another; the playlist is allowed to continue now that my focus can drift from the task.
I turn my gaze upward as I continue walking.
The sky is almost as bright as day, and thunder is making it even brighter.
I love rain and what comes with it. I can be anywhere, but if it’s raining, it almost feels like home.
I am again the little boy who wished for freedom, locked in a room hidden from a drunk father.
I am the same boy who needed anyone to save him, yet the one who did was another boy.
The man who is now by my side every night we hunt.
The man who demands blood as payment for his services, because while dragging us out of hell, he took something with him.
Something that needs feeding of its own.
And I will forever be doomed to feed that part of him, even when I regret it, because I owe him my life, and no matter how many lives I need to offer him, I will still be in debt.
My cousin’s demons might be metaphorical, but they are as real as they would be if they had flesh and horns. They are as demanding—even more so—and the fire coming from within him awaits to burn us all.
When I reach the car, I stop. I need a moment to gather myself.
It’s not every night that these thoughts torment me, but lately, it has been more frequent than I would like.
It’s like they are following the desire growing inside Mike’s mind for more victims. The more he wants to kill, the more I torment myself with guilt.
I take a deep breath, pausing the torment for tonight, because I know an end isn’t in the cards for it, but maybe I can drift my focus to something else for just a few hours.
I allow myself to do just that: a few hours without guilt.
I check my phone for the time as I throw my shovel in the back and climb inside my car, seeing that I have just enough time for a little detour.
Remember rule number six? Yeah, I completely shattered that one this time.
It wasn’t my plan in any way, but when I met her, I couldn’t keep myself from getting to know her.
And the more time we pass in this town, the more I find myself drifting back to her.
I can’t explain it, but the sight of her makes almost everything silent. It calms the guilt I constantly feel. It almost allows me to breathe without it being painfully unbearable.
For the most part, I haven’t gotten that close.
I have been keeping an eye on her from a distance.
I have always enjoyed diners in every town we visit; they are always busy.
It helps me ground myself, watching people go about their mornings—the busier, the better.
This town, though, is different, because at the local diner where I have found myself spending every morning after a hunt—and sometimes even mornings in general—is where she works.
And I would be lying if I didn’t admit she is the reason I keep finding my way back to that place.
I usually avoid going by her house if I can. I have visited a few times in secret, when the boys were distracted, but never for long and never with her knowledge. If I am being honest, I doubt she knows I exist to begin with. For her, I must be just another customer blending into the morning crowd.
Right now, though, the need to see her burns high.
I drive in the direction I arrived from a few hours ago, but instead of heading for the house we are staying at, I choose to take the road to hers.
A part of me—the one that worries—checks cautiously for the police car that stopped me previously, just because you never know.
The other part—the twisted one—gets hard at the idea of danger, almost. That excitement, the thrill of the hunt reaching my mind again hours after it’s done, blends with the image of her.
Both memories dance in my mind, courting each other, and their existence makes me excited in a way no man should be while thinking about the woman he stalks and the woman he just buried. Yet here we are.
She doesn’t live far from where we have been staying, which makes it easier for me to make a stop without them knowing.
Although you can never be too cautious, and I will have to figure out a lie just in case.
The good thing about tonight’s weather is that I can just blame it all on the rain.
It just took longer than it should have because of how wet the ground was, or I could just say I did an extra loop around the town to make sure no one was following.
The possibilities of excuses are endless.
I can conjure anything, really, and the boys would never know, as long as they are satisfied with how their night turned out.