Chapter 2 #2
Walking over to my stainless steel table, three items beg me to touch them.
To pick them up between my fingers and to play with them.
Who am I to deny them? That would only be rude.
Tingling my senses, I take hold of the rubber tubing first. My body reacts to the familiar sensation of its texture, bringing it up to my nose, I sniff it.
Notes of musk and wood trail behind and warm memories of past wickedness overcome me.
I have used this on nearly one hundred people, but each one feels just like the first time, as if it only began yesterday.
Each instrument is deserving in their own way. Oh, how time flies.
The syringe tickles my brain next. Already filled, with the empty vial lying next to it, I carefully grasp the uncapped needle in my hand. The clear liquid inside resembles saline solution, a harmless hydration aid. It’s an illusion of safety, because this isn’t saline at all.
Smiling sinisterly, I turn to formally greet Mr. Carlisle, who is wearing a navy blue polo shirt.
His head is turned toward me, shifting eyes examine my hands.
Keeping still, I allow his brain to run rampant with ideas of what could come next.
The syringe mixed with the tubing screams danger.
And Mr. Carlisle’s exposed arm is perfectly on display.
Now his eyes follow mine. He sees what I do and his head shakes back and forth in realization.
Tsking and patronizing him, I say, “I told you I wouldn’t ruin the surprises I have in store for you.
I can’t confirm or deny your assumptions.
But I think you’ll like it.” Smiling, I lie without remorse or hesitation.
Not to comfort him, but to give him a false sense of hope. It’s so much more fun that way.
Making my way over to him, his face watches me cautiously.
A natural response that doesn’t faze me.
My face returns to a neutral expression while a hint of excitement builds inside of me.
Kneeling next to the chair that my new friend is secured to, my lips part and I place the glass syringe into my mouth.
A delicate chime from my teeth against the glass is soothing, like music.
Then, gripping the rubber tube with both hands, I wrap it around his exposed bicep.
Squeezing the tube tight, my goal is to cut off circulation.
To get his veins very pissed off. I tie it off, lean back, and watch.
My eyes are hyperfocused on one vein in particular, and now I wait for the magic, the pop.
I always find this part relaxing. Sadly, Mr. Carlisle doesn’t share the same sentiment.
He is vibrating. A faint tremble of the chair against the floor doesn’t create enough noise to aggravate me, but he is on the brink of testing my fucking patience if he doesn’t stop.
Taking the syringe out of my mouth with my free hand, my fingers reach forward, tapping the crook of his arm where blood builds, rising underneath his skin.
His lifeline is vulnerable to me. A gift.
It’s beautiful. Captivated, I speak, “It’s just a little something to take the edge off.
You could definitely use it. What do you think?
” Ignoring his response, I watch intently.
The vein calls to me. Beautiful blueish purple blood courses through it, completely unaware of this substance about to invade its cells.
Blood is beautiful when admired in its natural form, not splattered crimson against me.
Placing the sharp tip of the needle against the skin, I become hypnotized, entering a trancelike state, focused only on the task at hand.
Slowly, I push the needle through the thin skin and meet the blue blood.
Using my thumb, I calmly push down on the applicator, injecting Mr. Carlisle with a debilitating paralysis.
It will render him immobile, but fully awake and aware of everything happening.
He will truly feel his body’s natural reaction, from panic to grief and remorse.
Perhaps some regrets, and if onlys. He will feel his lungs hyperventilating, squeezing, begging, unable to save them.
The plunger reaches the bottom. The rocuronium is fully injected now.
Quickly, I release the rubber tube from his arm and toss it next to me before I pull out the syringe.
Removing the band allows the paralyzer to swim freely inside of his bloodstream.
Mr. Carlisle’s body is currently allowing it to absorb into his heart and brain.
And I stand here waiting, watching his face as he realizes it’s not street drugs I’ve just administered to him. Fuck, but I bet he wishes it was.
The area I pricked has a bead of oxygenized blood clotting. Looking down at my hand, a drop of crimson is hanging from the tip of the needle. And as if it all happens in slow motion, I watch the single droplet fall into the air. Gravity pulls it down, and it lands on my white shirt.
“What a shame for you. Don’t you think so?
” I patronize while watching the panic take over his eyes.
His soul shining through him, he is very alive and very fucking scared.
Sadly, to my disappointment, this drug doesn’t paralyze vocal cords.
My ears go from hearing a rattle of the chair legs to the annoyance of his moaning.
“Is it my birthday already? Because you keep gifting me more time with you. Mr. Carlisle, you shouldn’t have,” I sarcastically toy with him.
“Are you going to cry? Because only little bitches cry before they die.” Rising to my full height, I grip his frozen face.
Leaning down, we are only inches apart and feeling his breath on my skin deeply disturbs me.
My eyes penetrate his as I speak in barely a whisper.
“Are you a little bitch, Mr. Carlisle?” I know he is just like his kid.
I don’t release him, instead adding, “I never need a reason to kill. You would be here regardless. But if you are going to thank anyone for expediting our fate-filled meeting, thank yourself, thank your kid, thank your wife who is fucking around on you. Oops, did you not know? She’ll be fine, don’t worry.
Your brother will take great care of her, while your son will resent him.
Get into drugs and in ten, maybe fourteen years, if he’s lucky, someone will find his dead body in a back alley from a drug overdose. ”
Squeezing his face harder, my arm trembles as my muscles engage.
A hard crack pierces my ears, adding to the ambiance of the evening, and I’ve successfully dislocated his jaw.
Playing with his loose bones, I push his lower jaw around mindlessly.
“And I know what you’re thinking. The drop of blood is barely noticeable.
And I agree, I can barely see it. But I know it’s there.
And now my shirt is fucking ruined. I told you I hated blood.
I warned you, so you can’t be mad at me for this, Mr. Carlisle. This one’s all on you, buddy.”
Okay, Holden, stop playing with your dinner, and since when do you say buddy? My mind just needs to ruin all the fun. But he’s right, my voice of reason. I have toyed with and taunted my new friend long enough. It’s time to show him the main event.
Letting him go, I stand and make my way back over to the table.
Placing the syringe down, I grab the clear plastic bag next, then return to Mr. Carlisle.
The music box pulls my focus briefly, as my favorite part of “Clair de Lune” plays.
Closing my eyes, I allow the inflection to take hold of me.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” If this twat grunts in response, ruining the moment, he will get another minute added for being a dick unable to read the room.
I wait for it, but it seems as if he has learnt.
Patting his head, which is balding at the crown, I praise, “Good boy,” while the song reaches its delicate ending, before restarting all over again.
Oh, and I should mention to him the things about his wife and brother were complete bullshit. I made up on the spot. But I lost all fucks to give about the same time his son keyed my Rolls.
Positioning myself behind him, with the bag in one hand, I place the other on his shoulder, squeezing, and explain, “I’m going to kill you now.
Your body is in a state of paralysis. You will try to fight it, but it won’t work, so save your energy for when your life of little meaning flashes before you.
I won’t feel bad doing this. I won’t remember you.
You are forgettable, just another person, another body feeding my hunger, my craving.
” Letting him go, I grip the bag, open it wide, and swiftly place it over his head.
I squeeze it tight around his neck, allowing no air in to feed his soon-to-be desperate lungs.
With his mouth gagged, only his nose may attempt to inhale.
And with each small breath, the clear plastic bag tightens around his face.
Each time I do this, I think I should add a stand-up mirror across from us, so I can watch.
And each time I fucking forget about it until we hit this point. For fuck’s sake, Holden.
Under my grip, I can feel his chest convulsing as his lungs beg and plead for oxygen.
That’s when I release my hold on the bag.
Air slips in under his chin and Mr. Carlisle takes a deep breath.
Listening, his second inhale occurs and I tightly hold the bag back around his head.
To give false hope is part of the fun, part of the rush I love.
Timing is everything and with every extra minute gained from this naughty boy breaking my rules, it allows me to play just a little bit longer.
Smiling to myself, I allow his lungs to weep longer this time.
The sniffing from his nose only suffocates him further, suctioning the bag to his face, making it airtight.
Wiggling my thumb under the edge, the tiniest amount of air enters, bringing him back to life like a fucking miracle.
This time I count to two in my head, only allowing one breath in before securing the bag closed once more.
From the pain of his jaw, to fighting for his life, Mr. Carlisle’s body will eventually give in to the inevitable. Death. I’ve played enough. Now it’s time to end it.
Squeezing the bag tighter, harder, and with no mercy, I watch and wait, never relenting my hold.
By now, my music box has restarted once more and I stand, basking in the beauty penetrating my ears and heart.
My mind gets lost in it and my eyes close, completely immersing myself in the experience.
Feeling each note, each intent of the piece.
The emotion and passion it provokes without even meaning to.
Something can be so simple, yet so fucking beautiful.
Like taking a life. Feeling their last breath is a privilege.
This combined with Mr. Carlisle’s lifeless body sitting before me… it is art.