Flash Fiction

 

Writing prompt: I didn’t set out to be a serial killer … 15-500 words

No one starts out intending to be a serial killer. Killing is a very sensory exprience, and it takes time to develop your senses properly. You continue to kill for many reasons, but mostly because it pleases you to do so.

You start by drowning the neighbor’s cat. You snatch it from their yard and stuff it into an old pillowcase, knotting up the end. You hear it hiss and mewl and feel it thrash, extending its claws through the pillowcase to leave bloody trails down your arm. You smack it silly before taking it down to the stream and holding it under the water until there is no struggle, no life. As for your arm, you’ve learned your lesson, and you know that won’t happen again. You tell your mother it scratched you for no reason, and when the neighbor comes looking, you say you haven’t seen the little bugger since.

You move on to torturing stray dogs, offering them scraps of food, then pulling them away at the last moment before their jaws can take them away from you. You wield a large stick that you use to engage them in a frenzied “game” of whack-a-mole, waiting until you’ve either knocked them unconscious or, more delightfully, they retreat, whimpering, with their tail between their legs.

Your first human kill is entirely unexpected. You’re hanging out at a bar, knocking back the beers, and a gorgeous redhead sits down on the stool next to you. I mean, she is stacked, and her legs … You offer to buy her a drink, but she looks at you and laughs, saying “You? I don’t think so.” “Why not?” you ask. “Because you’re not man enough.” She looks you up and down as dismissively as you did those dogs. You storm from the bar, but the cold air outside slaps you in the face harder than her words did. You resolve to do something about the situation. You wait. When she comes out, you grab her, clamping your hand over her mouth. “Am I man enough now, honey?” you snarl.

It’s a short drive to the woods. She begs and pleads with you, but that only eggs you on. You wrap her head in some old cloth sacks, push her into the stream, and hold her under. After that, she’s no more to you than the cat, but you feel a rush. You bury the evidence and head back home.

The next time you actually look for a mark, and you’ve made sure to stock your car with the bags, a shovel, and some duct tape to make the screams sound more like the cat’s mewl. This time it feels much easier. You feel another rush but want still more. The police have started to get interested, too. They’re noticing you without knowing who you are. You’re important, wanted. It’s become a high, and here you are, serial killer extraordinaire …

(c) 2017 Miriam Ruff All Rights Reserved