6 Chapter 6: Serial am I, Part 2

I reached over and removed the can's lid from the opener and brought it close to my eye for inspection.The razor-sharp edges would surely do the trick.How much fun this was going to be to slice the girl up, bit by bit, with something she associates with love and kindness.

I held onto the lid as though it were a playing card I was about to toss.It felt good between my fingers.It felt right.

The girl wriggled in her restraints as I approached her.She cried and tried to scream through the mouth gag but it was no use.No one could hear her except for me and her cats.

With one hand, I squeezed her cheeks until she was forced to stick out her tongue.I then held on tight to the tip and she wriggled and tried to loosen my grip.Gingerly, I slid the edge of the cat food lid across her tongue, from as far back as I could reach in her mouth to the very tip of it.She cried out in pain as the blood oozed out like lava from an erupting volcano.I let go and it snapped back into her mouth, blood pouring down her throat and choking her.She gagged and cried, unable to scream out, choking on her own blood.The sour seafood smell from the lid intertwined with the aroma of iron.

I watched her for a moment and didn't think that this was the way this girl should die.

With my left hand, I grabbed her by the back of the hair and slowly pulled her head back to reveal her smooth, pasty- white neck.With my right hand, I gently slid the edge of the lid against her neck, slicing through her skin and digging a little deeper in as I went.Her gargled cries quickly changed to a muffled, gasping sound as the life in her body slowly drained away.Her blood raced down her neck and more poured down to her lungs, her red bouquet soaked her blouse.

She stopped gagging and wriggling and her body stopped writhing. Her head dropped toward her bosom, dead.

What a splendid experience it was.The sensation of the crude blade slicing through her tongue, the warm sensation of her blood comforting my fingers as they swept across her throat and the unexpected grand finale of the cats drinking from the blood that pooled just beneath her.

My work was truly an art form.How clever I was to use the lid of the can and how thoughtful of her to supply the mechanism of her own demise.

While in search of my greatest masterpiece, there were several works of art along the way like the house cleaner who was left alone on a chilly November morning.I hid behind the couch, waiting for her to take a break at 10:45 like she usually did.Just as she relaxed back on the couch, I thrust the broomstick through the cushion and I'll never forget the sensation of the splintered wooden spear as it pierced the skin of her back and leapt forward out through her chest.Astonished at what just happened to her, she looked down and gripped the broomstick with both hands.She tried to pull it out but she had no idea the plastic bristle head was still attached and too bulky to slip through the back of the couch and out through the front of her body.

I stood up from behind the couch, and she raised her eyes only once to see who did this awful thing to her.With a few stuttered gargles of choking blood, she died.

Some people enjoy the sounds of a cooing baby, of waves crashing on the beach or of raindrops against a windowpane.I personally enjoy the soothing gurgling sound of blood percolating up the back of the throat as a person struggles to catch a final breath. The sound reminds me of a brook, roaring through snow-covered ice where the brilliant, freshly laid powder is contrary to the warm crimson gore melting to the ground below my latest kill.

Over the past few years, there have been countless people who have surrendered their lives to me so I can survive in your world.There are definitely a few honorable mentions like the man who changed lanes on the interstate and almost took off my car's front bumper.I caught up with him at a gas station bathroom where he had an unfortunate encounter with a dirty toilet bowl and the lid of its porcelain tank; his head severed from his body and left in the bowl as a surprise for the next patron.I noted how long it took to sever the spine and break through his neck muscles by using the lid.It was a lot of work, very worth the outcome but I knew I would have enjoyed it more if I could have savored the moment.

The more lives I took, the emptier I became.Something was missing.I began to feel like an over-eater who gorged himself on chocolate cookie cream sandwiches and jars of peanut butter.Sure, the cookies and peanut butter tasted good going down and satisfied my cravings temporarily, but as soon as the box was empty, the hunger inside me continued, relentlessly.

I was an addict wanting more and more and I saw no end in sight.No light at the end of the tunnel.I thought I would spend eternity taking lives, temporarily basking in pools of blood and clever ways to bring on death.

Then, as though struck with a thunderbolt, it hit me.I had just killed a set of roommates, two college-aged kids home for an intimate evening, never knowing that one would die by having their limbs slowly ground through the garbage disposal and the other choke on a cocktail of Draino and Clorox Bleach, the acid burning through his esophagus and exploding out his mouth like an erupting volcano.It was then, in the final moments of forcing the elbow through the disposal, that I realized what my life's work was all about, who I had been doing this for.