Saturday, October 31, 2009

Part One, Chapter One

Alex told himself he wasn't going to kill the bitch, but he never really believed it, not down deep. He told himself he shouldn't kill the bitch, and he knew that was right, but it was not realistic to think that would be enough to stop him. He knew that, on some level, he shouldn't be killing at all, but that had never stopped him either. He knew killing her was foolish, that it was a risk, that it meant he'd have to run, but it was time anyway. He'd been in this town long enough. He'd taken all that Portland had to offer and then some.

Alex had the conversation with himself in bed for as long as he'd worked for the bitch. Some nights it was easier to say he wouldn't do it than others, but no matter how strident his arguments were, there was still that little voice in the back of his mind that always knew better. But you will anyway, it seemed to say, smirking at him. Smirking at him the way she did, like she knew everything. He laid in bed, counting fours on his fingers, bouncing his thumb from index to pinky and back, 1-2-3-4-4-3-2-1, or scraping his middle fingernails up and down his thumb until it was red and raw. He would picture her begging for her life, picture the moment that he finally put her out of his misery, and then he would tell himself he would never do such a thing, it was too dangerous, even though the deeper part of him, the stronger part of him, always knew that her day would come.

And that day had finally come. Portland's last, and probably best kill, would be the bitch.
Alex knew she was married so he knew he couldn't take her at home. Unlike most of his kills, this one would take some finesse. He was proud of all of his kills, just like a parent is proud of all of his children, but some shine more than others. Some allow for a bit more reflection of the parent.

He went into work as Jerry, just like normal, and smiled at her, like he always did, like everything was fine, not like he was picturing his hands around her throat every second he had to face her. He always wore a long sweater or an untucked shirt when he went into the office because these fantasies, even right in front of her, always aroused him.

He didn't hate her as much as she disrupted his life. Every time someone in the office asked him a personal question and he talk at length about his cat, or his brother, or his niece, just repeating the lies he'd written down and memorized, the lies about Jerry's family, every time he did that, she would fuck with him. She would ask one more question, one question too many, the kind of question that someone would only ask you if they didn't really believe you. She always listened to him with eyes that were calculating, waiting for him to make a mistake. If there was a skill that kept him going more than any other, it was his ability to lie, and she fucked with that.

One early morning, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, knowing he would see her at the office tomorrow, thinking about what a cunt she was, how much she got it in his way, held him back, it came to Alex: She was like him. That was why she upset him so much. Of course, she wasn't exactly like him, he was sure of that. Someone really like him didn't stay at the same job for 15 years and get married and have kids and get employee of the month plaques. That was ridiculous. But she had enough in common with him that she could see through him when others could not. That was what made his job, which was as close to a perfect one as he'd ever had, such a drag. He would never admit it anywhere but the quiet of his bedroom in the small hours, but she intimated him. She was onto him. On some level, even if she didn't know what he really was or what he really did, she knew.

Once Alex figured that out, even when he paid lip service to what a stupid idea it was to kill her, he'd known it would happen eventually.

That day he woke up and he knew it was the day. He never knew it would be the day when he fell asleep, but he always knew in the morning. It was a special day. More special than any other killing day. The days came in tiers. There were the days that got him by, when he woke up and he knew he'd have to do something to keep himself going, even if he didn't have a plan. Those were the days that he killed cats, or dogs, or racoons. Those days were boring, but in the long term, necessary.

The days in the middle were good days. Days that involved plans and strategy and wonderful anticipation. Those days were fun and kept him satisfied for days, weeks sometimes.
But the big ones, oh the big ones he could live off of, re-membering, re-creating, re-experiencing, for a long time. Long enough to get situated in a new town with a new identity and get ready to start over. He'd look for a job in the same field, since it had worked out so well, and maybe this time he wouldn't wind up working for a dirty, scheming whore.
Alex had watched her leave work several times over the past few months, since he'd admitted to the deeper part of himself that he was going to kill her eventually. He knew what her car looked like and when she was likely to leave the office. He'd gone in earlier today, just like normal, dropped off files, picked up more for the weekend (and what a weekend it would be!) and gone home. Or so she'd thought. Instead he'd gone for a drink to settle his nerves. Just one. It wouldn't do to be stopped and arrested for drunk driving. He stopped at a grocery store and bought a four-pack of Starbucks Double Shots, because he knew he was in for a long night. He also bought some snacks, nuts, jerky, trail mix, to keep him going.

Then he pulled into the massive parking garage that served two office parks and found her car. He parked two spaces away from it. She, of course, was a fucking workaholic, so the spaces next to her opened up long before she called it a day at 6:30. Once the space next to her driver's side opened up, he took it, parking a good space away from the door.

Alex had a van, of course. You had to have a van, it was the only practical way. His van was very subtle, however. It was a minivan that had been converted for delivery use, so it was two comfortable captain's chairs and a big cargo bay. There were sliding doors on both sides and double doors at the rear. He had made the hole in the base of the cargo bay himself, the hole that now held a steel pin that was soldered to a heavy iron bar attached to the underside of the van. That had been a hell of a day's work that had. He'd had to stop three times to sexually relieve himself as he thought about the potential of the slave bar in the back of his van.

The van was a colossal investment, not of funds, but of time. Once you had a custom van, you could hardly take it to a shop to have it worked on, not unless you had friends. So you had to learn to do oil changes yourself, and even more serious work when necessary. That was the beauty of having another car. You only used the van for the killing, the rest of the time you drove a very sensible small sedan. A sedan that could be towed behind your car when you moved to a new city.

Alex sat in the jump seat in the back of the van. It was uncomfortable, but it would hardly do to be seen by her early. It would ruin the surprise. The parking garage was slowly emptying, as he had known it would, which made him happy. He was practically humming with the pent up energy that he knew he would use over the next days. He understood he was probably too excited to make her last as long as some of them, but he could always hope. His record was only 50 hours. By that time he'd been ready to kill them just so he could go get some sleep. In fact, as soon as he'd slit the guy's throat, he'd curled up right then and there and slept like a baby. When he woke his arms were so tired he could barely lift them to drive home. He remembered calling the bitch that day and pleading that he'd had a stomach bug the next day. Her voice had spoken volumes about how little she believed him and how much less she thought of him. The cunt.

Alex was staring at the elevator that he knew she would come out of, completely unconscious of the fact that he was stroking himself through his pants. In his left hand he held the syringe, twirling it between his fingers.

Then the elevator opened, and there the bitch was. His breathing increased as he watched her walk to her car, fishing her keys from her purse. He looked around, no one else was in the garage. He turned back to her and his vision narrowed. He faintly heard her car beep as she unlocked it. His muscles strained, ready for action. She moved between the cars and opened her door.

He slid the van door back, which he'd left ajar.


She turned and he stabbed her with the needle in the carotid, jamming it home. The ketamine took her quickly.

“You...but--” Her eyes swam as he reached out to support her. Her muscles sagged and she relaxed in his arms. Her eyes began to fade out of focus. “Jer-ry?”

As Alex held her, he began to ejaculate, just as he started dragging her into the van. The surprise was always one of the good parts.

Here We Go!

Once again, I'm writing a novel. Shocking to many of you, I know. But an idea I kicked around a year or so ago just clicked on Thursday and I've now written 16 pages. Today I was reminded that November is National Write a Novel Month (or whatever), so what the hell. I'm going to keep at it every day (give or take) until the end of November and see where I'm at by then. I might even have a whole book.

This is partly an experiment, just to see what happens, but it's also an exercise in discipline, something I've been working on developing lately, something that I'm aware I sorely lack.

I figure doing this in a public forum will give some measure of accountability, especially if anyone actually bothers to read the damn thing. I will post at least a chapter a day for November and go from there. I have already written six chapters, so I will theoretically be able to take a day off at some point, but why bother, right? I will post at least a chapter a day, but at present I do not have a page goal for myself. One may evolve, but for now there is just the goal of at least a chapter. Five pages a day seems to be pretty universal, but I'm already at 16.

Also, it should be noted that I am not entering this book, which remains untitled, in Novel Writing Month because I started it in October and because I'm not writing it to enter it in a competition, but just to write a book under a deadline and with a schedule.

Because of the circumstances under which I am writing, only positive feedback is requested. If you have serious feedback, by all means, write it down and send it to me at the end of the month. Editing on the fly will be minimal, this is just to get the story out, so there are bound to be holes, typos, and other errors. If you see them, I want to hear about them, just not in November as it will distract me from the end result of actually finishing this puppy.

If this is completed it will be my first actual serial killer novel. My mother will be so proud! I'm excited to see where it goes and excited to explore the twisted ideas behind it. It will not be extravagantly explicit, but it will be fucked up. Just so you know.