An unusual pastime

My second kill came soon after, and it was arguably my most reckless to date. If I ever was in any danger of being caught, it was over this one.

The thrill I'd felt in the aftermath of killing Bethany had been so overwhelming that I felt I needed to kill again, right now, the sooner the better. Afterwards, I'd refine my methods and get a little more patient as killing become more a pastime than an animal urge, after I'd grown used to it.

This time, though, I went out (way too close to my home, too) in a bloodlust, and I couldn't think straight after the experience with Bethany. All I had on me was a simple knife, and I drove around just like that in the bright light of day, searching for another victim.

It was over lunch that I found her. She was blonde, her hair straight and shoulder-length, dressed in a “professional” kind of skirt and suit, in shoes that had just a hint of heels, a perfect balance between no-nonsense professionalism and feminity. She was a little older than was my usual taste, but something attracted me to her anyway. Maybe it was her aura of optimism and confidence. Something beautiful, waiting to be torn down. I'd seen her cross the block on the way to the sandwich place I was eating at, so I had a good idea of where she'd be passing through on her way back.

After finishing my sandwich in a hurry and leaving, I scouted out the route I'd seen her take a half hour earlier, and I found a great spot, where a narrow and dark alley turned off the main street in a place that couldn't be easily observed from very many angles.

Waiting here, my pulse rate went through the roof as I heard and saw her approaching, oblivious to the danger she was in. I slipped into a shadow to heighten my chance of remaining unseen, and just after she passed by the spot, I stepped behind her, put the knife to her throat and clamped my hand over her mouth. She froze for a moment in confusion and shock, and in my estimation, it was this instant that sealed her fate.

I was able to drag her a few feet into the alley, where we wouldn't be seen by anyone that wasn't explicitly coming to look for us, and that was when she started screaming and struggling.

By this time, it was too late. I kept my hand on her mouth like a vise, choking back any screams, and bending back her head, while at the same time plunging my knife into her stomach again and again. From the moment the blade first broke through her skin and ripped into her stomach, she began faltering, stepping back and forth uneasily. She grew weak fast, and as I continued stabbing her, I had to use my other hand to hold her up so she wouldn't collapse to the ground before I was finished ripping up her inner organs. At this point, she was too weak to scream, anyway, so I wasn't concerned with that any longer.

By the time she went limp in my hands, I'd stabbed her three to four dozen times, and blood flow was already ebbing down. I let her drop to the ground in a huge pool of blood, and looking down at myself, I was bloody all over, too. My knife and the hand holding it were shining red, and the hand that had been over her mouth was bloody, too. I must have stabbed her in the lungs, too, as she'd been coughing up bubbles of blood towards the end.

In an attempt to conceal the blood on my front, I turned my jacket inside out and returned to my car like this. I would have probably been made if I had parked a little bit further away, but luckily, I reached it without any suspicious eyes taking too close of a look. Arriving at home, I had a major high as I registered I'd just gotten away with another killing, cold-blooded murder this time. In my bloodlust, I started licking the half-dried blood off my blade, and it sent me right to the bathroom where I couldn't help myself but to jerk off imagining the blonde's death throes as she'd been shivering and bleeding in my arms.

Watching the news the next day, I learned she'd been a single mother to a girl toddler who was now going to go in foster care, as her grandparents had died already. I wondered if she'd thought of her daughter as she was shaking and spewing blood in my hands.

Checking the internet, I actually found a great picture that some journalist had managed to take before police contaminated the crime scene, which existed in an uncensored version on some sites. Looking at it, I regretted having left in such a hurry; I would have loved to take in the aftermath right there. Her blonde hair had become dyed red, drenched in blood after she'd fallen. Her face was forever twisted in an expression of panic, agony, and despair. She had bloody froth at the mouth, and there was a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth that joined the big pool on the ground. From the angle the photograph was taken, you could see many of the stab wounds very well. You could see that I had even sliced her breasts a couple of times. That might be why she'd suddenly been coughing up blood.

After a period of paranoia, where once again, I thought the cops would come down on me any second now, I knew that I'd gotten lucky another time. It had been luck, though. Way too close, and way too out in the open. By all rights, I should have been caught. I wouldn't make that mistake the next time.