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Through the Eyes of Death

Posted Aug 5, '12 at 9:17pm

KirstAngel

KirstAngel

28 posts

This is a story I'm thinking on expanding, please give me feedback on if you think I should go farther into it or if you think it's good the way it is.

Through the Eyes of Death

Itâs dark. I drive through the forgotten streets of the city, weaving my way among the vermin of the world. He is here. I can feel it, he is here and he is close. I will find him tonight. I stop the car when I reach the rundown piece of **** that they call a bar. Immediately I see his car, a van rather, parked in the farthest shadows from the door. I smile. Perfect. I park beside him, and get out, my stomach twisting, my blood singing with excitement. The press of the damp, cool autumn air on my skin only heightens my excitement.
I walk up to the door, and smile slightly at the bouncer at the door. He doesnât card me, or ask for any money. He simply smiles back and lets me in. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk past him, and I canât help but smile again. I know I look good, better than most, but not as good as some. If only he knew what lay beneath this pretty body.
I make my way to the bar, scanning the room. Itâs full of drunks and prostitutes and drug addicts, the kind of people this place was invented for. And then I see him. He doesnât stand out, not to anyone but me. He wears the same disgusting clothes as the rest of the âbarâsâ patrons, his eyes hold the same forlorn broken look as the rest, but to me he is different. In some way he stands out, something that is bad for him, but very, very good for me.
I sit at the bar and absently order something I know I wonât drink, never taking my eyes from him. The bartender sets a filthy glass at my elbow that I donât touch, for this I need my head to be clear. He sits at a booth alone, this poor, dirty creature, and I watch him gulp down his beer. He keeps his eyes on his drink except for one moment, when he looks up around the room. Itâs then that I see his face fully and I understand what sets him apart from the rest. Itâs his eyes; there is something different in them, something alive and hard, something missing from the rest of the trash that live here.
He finishes his drink, and rises. He walks over to a woman who is most defiantly a *****. He slides a few bills into her hands and she stands. He wraps his arm round her waste and leads her outside to his van. I follow after a moment. I watch them climb into the back, from the door. Immediately, I see it start to rock. They are distracted; I take this opportunity to open my trunk. Inside, laying amiss the cloths and tools is my pack. I withdraw to the shadows to prepare and wait.
They finish quickly, and she leaves. He emerges sometime later. I make my move. Gracefully I step from the shadows; he hears my heals clicking on the cracked pavement. He turns, and I can feel his eyes on my body, clad only in a thin dress. He smiles. I smile and saunter forward. In one hand I hold my pack; in the other is my surprise. I wrap my âfreeâ hand around the back of his neck and lean forward so that my lips almost meet his. He stiffens as my needle sinks into his neck.
I grab him as he falls to lay him gently on the ground. I out of the impractical heals, and drag him to my car. It takes all my strength to pull him into the back seat. Once I have him in, I shut the door. I pull the thick rope from my back and tie his hands with practiced ease. I fill another syringe, and inject him with his second shot. This one will keep him out until we arrive.
I pick up my shoes, and climb into the driverâs seat. I feel the smile on my face as I look back at him. I drive away, positive no one noticed us. I stick to the main roads as I drive; Iâm less likely to be stopped if I do. I reach the edge of town within the hour, and continue to the country. I drive along the twisting roads until I find the nearly invisible side road. Itâs all dirt and rough, but I donât fear my car being hurt or him waking; I have done this many times.
After another hour of driving through dense forest, I arrive. I park the car in front of the decaying cabin, the perfect place for us to be alone. I sling my pack over my shoulder, unhurried and pull the wheelchair I keep on the porch to the car. With great care I load him onto it. I push him up the ramp, and into the building. Even in the dark, I know this place. I navigate past the holes in the floor without thought. I take him into the Room. I open my pack again, taking from it plastic and rope. I cover the steal table in the plastic. And secure the ropes to pipes that stand at each corner.
With a smile I kneel by him. Slowly, I undress him, as a mother may do a child. There is a simple pulley system beside the, my, table. I use it to lift him onto the plastic. With yearsâ worth of practice, I securely tie his wrists and ankles and tie him down by the neck to my table. I go to my pack again. This time I take from it my toys. First I slide on a pair of gloves. Knives of every sort gleam in the dim light as I remove them to set them lightly on a smaller table. They are my most prized possessions; the only thing I think are worth the money I spend on them.
He is waking now. I smile and turn to him. I watch him slowly drag himself from the grip of the drugs. I laugh softly as he wakes fully and begins to struggle against the ropes I tied him with. He looks at me when I laugh and I slowly walk forward. He begs; like all the others he begs. He asks who I am, what I want, why. He threatens my death, and I only smile. I love hearing them scream and cry. I can feel my excitement building. I pick up one of the smaller knives, and place it calmly on his right side, above his liver. His struggles increase but I donât let his movements make the first cut; that is mine.
I watch his eyes as I slice deep into his liver. He screams, and I only smile; this is my favorite part. I leave the knife sticking in him, and go back for another, longer blade. His curses ring in my ears as I return to him. This one I place over his stomach, and I donât wait for him to notice, I donât have long. I stab his stomach and he screams again. I grab the third knife without looking and slice immediately across his intestines. I set the knife aside and reach inside his warm flesh. The feel of his hot blood on my hands excites me. My heart races as I slowly pull the gray intestines from his body. I enjoy the pain and horror in his face as he watches me toy with his insides. I can feel my excitement peaking, filling me with unfamiliar emotion.
He is fading fast. The life is leaving his eyes as I watch. In less than five minutes the once living, breathing man was nothing more than meat. The excitement is fading now and emptiness is replacing it. I pick up a pair of scissors from the table. From my pack I pull out a tiny plastic bag and a scrap book. I open to a clean page and neatly print the date on it. I leave it sitting beside my pack. With the scissors I cut a lock of hair from his head. I let it fall into the plastic bag and seal it tight. This I tape onto the page, above the date, a small satisfied smile on my lips.
When that was finished, I grab my final blade. A saw. I use it to hack his body into sections. These I wrap in sections of the plastic to be buried in the surrounding forest. it takes time to dig the holes deep enough to prevent animals from reveling them. After three hours of digging and burring, the body is gone, spread over nearly a mile of forest. I return to the cabin, hot and sweating, covered in blood and dirt. I strip, and use my dress and wipes to clean my body and them my knives. The dress I burn in the destroyed stone fireplace, the knives I pack.
I walk naked to my car and dress in simple clothes from my trunk. I replace my pack. With one last check for blood, I climb into my car and drive back to town. My hunger has been satisfied for the moment. It would be days, perhaps ever weeks before it returned. As I drive, I think back on my last toy. He had asked who I was; I remember that among his pleas. I had said nothing then, but now he knew the answer. I smile grimly at the rearview mirror. I am death.

 

Posted Aug 5, '12 at 10:40pm

SoccerGirl27

SoccerGirl27

140 posts

O.O wow...That was descriptive enough to almost make me want to puke...but it was good Keep writing, I hope to see more

 

Posted Aug 6, '12 at 11:38am

KirstAngel

KirstAngel

28 posts

Thank you, is that bad though?

 

Posted Aug 8, '12 at 9:35am

KirstAngel

KirstAngel

28 posts

I'm thinking of continuing this, maybe going deeper in her life, what do you think?

 

Posted Aug 19, '12 at 8:48am

KirstAngel

KirstAngel

28 posts

Well here's more....

The house is quiet. I park the car in the drive way, and shut it off. The night fills with silence. I get out, and close my door quietly. I donât want to wake anyone in the house. I leave my pack in the trunk for now. Later I will hide it. Now, I enter the house. I am as quiet as I can be. I move easily through the darkness. The house is simple. The front door opens to a large living room that is decorated in soft earthen tones. From here there are halls and a set of stairs that give access to the rest of the home.
I take the stairs. I creep up them slowly; I am looking for creeks in the uncarpeted polished wood. Upstairs I walk to the first room on the left. The door opens soundlessly at my touch. It is the room of a young girl, all pinks and fluff. I look in at the sleeping child. I can see her small form huddled under her flowery bed spread. She is hidden almost entirely by an army of stuffed animals. I continue to watch this small girl sleep. I feel nothing as I look at her, no hate, no malice, but no love either.
I turn away and continue down the hall. I stop at the room in the right side halfway down the hall across from the bathroom. This is the room of a teenaged boy, dark where the girlâs room is light. This sleeping form I can make out among the wires and controllers of whatever devices that have been bought for him. His laptop is opened slightly and the glow of the screen illuminates his face. There is something familiar in it, something similar to mine. I consider for a moment that perhaps he is like me, but I dismiss the thought quickly. There is room for only one Death.
I watch him for a bit longer than the girl. I donât know why I fell more interest in him than the girl, perhaps itâs because I see the similarity in his eyes and mine, or perhaps heâs just more interesting than her. I wonder what it would be like if he was like me, if he hungered as I do, if I could teach him⦠Arms wrap around me from behind. I stiffen. My thoughts were interrupted by someone pressing themselves against my back. I feel them burry their face in my hair. Their lips are on my ear and I relax when I hear his voice.
I turn to him, the man, and look up at him. I can feel a fake but well done smile on my lips as I fake happiness to see him. He leans down and presses his lips to mine gently. We kiss and when we break apart he asks me where I went. I lie smoothly, and tell him some story about work. I am a good liar; Iâve been lying about feeling anything besides emptiness and ecstasy when I kill. He believes me, of course he believes me. He thinks he knows me and my life well enough to know that my work takes me away at odd hours, but even after more than twenty years of being together he still knows nothing. I feel nothing towards him, just like with the children. He, like they are, is nothing more than a camouflage. They keep suspicions away from me.
He says something he thinks is funny and I laugh. I spent nearly my whole adolescence working on a convincing laugh, and that too is believable. He lightly touched the spots under my eyes, making some comment about me not getting enough sleep. I tell him that Iâm fine, and not for the first time wish I could care for him. He is a good man, his eyes gentle, his face handsome, taller than me by nearly a foot, his hair short. His hairâ¦. I picked him because he is the opposite of what I want when I kill. Itâs not his general goodness; I have killed both the good and the bad, or anything I can define. I picked him because I have no urge to kill him.
He wraps his arm around my waste. I am led to our room. He gently pushes me down onto our bed, and I let him. There is no point in fighting; I was heading to bed anyway. I curl up into a fetal position. I feel the bed jostle as he climbs into bed with me. His arm wraps around my waist and he snuggles closer. He presses his lips to my hair and I sigh in false content. Always keep up the appearance; never let them see that you are different⦠He snuggles closer, and murmurs something about me needing to sleep.
I close my eyes. My thoughts turn to the one I had just ended. He had been one of many whose life had ended in my cabin. He was one of many who I had noticed; whose very existence had stood out to me in the endless sea of faceless people that inhabited the world. His life, unlike the lives of the man, the girl and the boy who I shared a home with, had mattered to me. And his death mattered even more. I had loved him in those moments when he was writhing in agony on my table, when his cries pitched to womanly shrieks. I had loved him as he died, just as I had loved all the others. I canât tell how many are buried in my deserted stretch of forest; I have filled up very nearly two scrapbooks with their hair.
My thoughts go to the hair. It is the only part of the body I find important enough to keep; itâs the only part that matters. Itâs the hair that attracts my attention when I hunt. The hair is the only part I keep intact as I kill. I feel his hands run through my own long hair and I sigh inwardly. He doesnât know I donât like my own hair messed with. It reminds me of something, something that floats just on the edge of my memories, something that I refuse to remember. I push the half formed memory away and relax my body. I need sleep. I slip into the darkness of my mind, and rest until morning.

 

Posted Aug 19, '12 at 9:30am

wolf1991

wolf1991

3,557 posts

Before I set myself up to read, critique and overall do what I do, next post, please make sure to double space the paragraphs. Text walls are no fun.

 

Posted Aug 19, '12 at 12:24pm

KirstAngel

KirstAngel

28 posts

Oh ok, I'm sorry, I forgot that the indents don't stay when I copy and paste, I'll be sure to fix that nets time.

 
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