RATED 18. Extreme violence, swearing, SA triggers. Clearly I need to not be reading such dark comics.
I’m dripping with sweat. I always get so hot when I’m killing someone. I mean literally hot. It doesn’t turn me on. Even when I shove broken bottles into their orifices I just do it for the screams, for the feeling of power – a helpless scream-machine that obeys me NOW, and NOW, and NOW…
And now she’s dead, and I’m kneeling here shaking with the rush of killing her, heart pounding, feeling reality creep back in. Noticing how hard the floor is on my knees, feeling all the places where she scratched me begin to smart. Feeling queasy and glutted. The sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness. This girl who was so exquisitely responsive, so irresistibly killable, is now just a nasty, shameful, blankly accusing thing that I want out of my house as soon as possible.
I peel off my gloves and let them splat onto her stomach, heavy with blood, such a picture of guilt that I’m choked for a moment with either dry sobs or dry laughter. I fumble for a clean pair and roll the whole mess up in the plastic sheet, trying not to see the way her sightless head flops over as I turn her. I don’t understand people who like to play with the bodies. Yuck.
I heave her into my arms and carry her to the car. My muscles are like jelly and she smells like a butcher’s shop. It. It smells like a butcher’s shop. I hate these late-night drives. The drive of shame. Staring at the road in my headlights, sweaty hands clenched on the wheel and the self-hate just spitting out of me.
‘You fucking SHIT! Oh GOD I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, God I hate you. How do you exist, how do you BREATHE, why don’t you just – God, I just wanna cut you to pieces. You DISGUST me.’
I rage at myself until my head aches and I’m out of words, just noises now, those dry sobs again. Sweat turning cold on my face, and now I’m feeling sorry for myself, me, the murderer. God, I’m disgusting. Murderer. It’s in my flesh, you’d have to scrub me to the bone to get rid of it. And here I am thinking about my own guilt when somebody’s DEAD in my car. Oh God, oh God…
And now we’re here and I have to face that thing again. The reek of blood when I open the boot of the car. A sliver of moonlight on its cheek, a sheen that might be tears.
I lift it up in my arms, and it, she, is still warm, and a rush of tender feelings overwhelms me. I cradle her protectively against my chest. Who am I protecting her from? Myself? A bit late…
I grab the spade awkwardly, and carry her into the woods. The blackness under the trees is graveyard creepy. The hollow voice of an owl sends my heart into my throat. When I was little I was scared of meeting a murderer in the woods. Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am.
Why do I bother to lay her down carefully, after I tortured her to death?
Digging takes forever. Roots, stones. The sound of my spade is a grim rhythm. It’s a very archetypal thing I’m doing. From Cain down, I’m every bastard who’s ever dug in the dark, in the smell of blood and earth, alone with his victim and his thoughts.
And my thoughts are always the same. This has to be my last. I have to stop.
I can’t stop, because I’m insane. I’m compelled. I’m out of control.
I have to believe I can stop.
I can’t believe I can stop, because if I can stop now, I could have stopped all along. I could never have started. They could all be alive.
I have to believe I’m insane, otherwise I’ll go mad.
I am in blood stepped in so far, returning were as tedious as go o’er.
My hands are hot and blistered, and they hurt when I lift her up again to lay her in the grave. I feel an odd moment of kinship with her. Equality, even. Two lost souls in the woods, two wasted lives. Both of us were children once. Somewhere in my chest I feel a twinge of who I used to be, and tears prickle in my eyes.
I settle her into her grave as if I was putting her to bed. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I feel sorry. Not just furious with myself, but – sad. Such a waste of her. A waste of me. I wish I could wake her up to tell her I’m sorry. I’m kneeling in the dug earth by her grave now and I’m crying. I hear my tears hitting the plastic sheet I wrapped her in. A thought strikes me and I know it’s an old thought, as old as Cain. If only the penitent tears of a murderer were magic. If only they could wake the dead.
God, I hate myself for being so sentimental. I don’t deserve that luxury. And she doesn’t need the man who brutalised and killed her dripping snot on her.
I start to cover her with earth. It feels so final. Like I’ve really killed her now. And I can’t stop crying. I’m crying like the end of a childhood tantrum, when you’ve fallen through rage into the pool of tears underneath. Like the end of a harrowing film that you sit through dry-eyed until a little bit of hope breaks your heart.
I imagine taking out my phone and calling the police. ‘I’ve killed someone. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
I could do that. I could.
I have to.