By Kailleaugh Andersson
Copyright 2000
They had fought the day it
started. It began as an argument, really; about what, Richard could not
remember, but he had said the cruelest thing to Calista. He told her that
their wedding was off and that he had never really loved her; the latter
of which, was really a lie. A bold faced, fucking white lie, but he wanted
it to sting and hurt her. He told her that he never really cared; another
lie, and that she could be dead, stone cold dead, dead in the ground and
rotting and he'd shed no tears. Told her that all those sweet, soft words
he'd whispered in her ear as they lay next to each other at night was just
a game; just a ploy to keep fucking her, he said. That was another lie,
but that was when she slapped him; slapped him hard and drew a welt over
his pale cheek as she burst into tears and turned to leave him.
And that was when the beast
came; bubbled up inside him like a toiling cauldron, overcame him like
a freak storm in the summer that casts long and dark shadows over the world
and swept up inside his head, mindless, like the ocean. And that was also
when he balled up his fist and punished her; leaving an instant cruel mark
upon the side of that beautiful round face as Calista plummeted to the
floor.
How long he had always wanted
to hurt her; not because she ever actually came close to deserving it,
but because deep down, Richard always knew he was capable. Perhaps because
in school, he had always been so good at taking hurt that one day it would
overcome him and he would become a predator no different from those jocks
in his school years who tormented him daily. And the fact was, ever since
those days he'd felt the need, simply because he knew it would give him
a new found strength, despite his weak, puny and thin frame. Knew that
it would make him feel like a man for once; to feel like the predator he
knew he was born to be simply because of the penis between his legs, no
different than his father before him. To feel whole and to feel complete.
He'd nearly felt that
way once when he was 18. He'd been out late, walking the dark city streets;
a little bit drunk and his head swimming with a warm, muddled feeling of
false testosterone induced by half a bottle of rock gut vodka that had
been distilled at some god forsaken place in Idaho. And that was when he
saw her: a pale and sickly girl with greasy black hair and muddied black
clothes. She couldn't have been more than 16, maybe only 15. She was likely
quite beautiful underneath the grime of the city that tainted her face
and clothes from weeks, or perhaps months of living on the streets. He
stood staring at her, not even blinking as she watched him with cautious
dark eyes that made her seem anyone's victim. Richard's head muddled with
that dangerous courage he had never had in a situation like this; a dark
alley, a defenseless girl that noone in this world gave a shit about and
the world around him in a slumber. Something raw and bestial began to inhabit
his mind. At first, merely like a tiny voice in his head noting the defensiveness
of the pitiful thing in front of him whose thin neck began to crane in
different directions as her eyes became and shifted about, nearly like
a fragile songbird knowing its destiny as an unseen kitten stalks it ever
so slowly from behind. And then that tiny voice growing rapidly into a
shout consuming every portion of his thought as if possessed and being
commanded to kill by some unseen master. It was then that Richard had felt
it. All of his fears in the world disappeared and he seemed to lunge at
the girl, his teeth gnashing, his hands tight like claws, his eyes blazing;
unstoppable, invulnerable and consumed with a desire, a dark urge pounding
within his head to conquer, pillage, rape and kill the pitiful victim that
fate had delivered to him who was now backing herself into a corner where
a grimy brick wall and a dirty metal dumpster, covered in gang graffiti
met, her eyes open wide and her mouth, pouting lips seeming to want to
open wide to emit a scream from the very bowels of her body. How pitiful
and how much a victim she looked with those dark eyes wide in fear, Richard
thought.
It was over in an instant:
Richard grasping his arm in pain as he emitted a painful scream. A thick,
streaming, crimson diagonal line suddenly appearing upon his arm and the
flash of thin and shiny metal cleaving through the air as the once pitiful
girl, now angry and defiant, brandished an antique straight razor towards
his face and forcing him to back away, and the girl, who had appeared as
anyone's victim, now seeming Amazonian and overpowering to him, calling
him a string of obscenities that would make any obnoxious comedian blush
beet red. Clarity consuming him and his courage quickly fading, Richard
turned on his heel and ran nearly like the wind for home where he locked
himself in his room for days.
Calista was on the floor,
and for the first time since that long ago night, Richard began to feel
complete; especially after he'd straddled her and had rended her clothes
off in strips as if he had grown claws from this restored power. And he
grew those claws, he thought; sharp and shiny black ones like obsidian
as he forced himself inside of her, impaling her over and over, making
Calista scream in a barbed pain until she literally tore open and bled,
crying thick, streaming, painful tears as she tried with what little strength
she had left to push him away, to push him off, to hide, to run for help,
yet defenseless and trapped in that fear and pain, her voice shrill, begging
him to stop. And this re-discovered power delighted him; made him feel
like a man. No, like a beast! A great and powerful beast, he thought, as
his senses began to become aware of Calista's blood that hung like a dark
and sweet stench in that humid summer air. Keen; and how he desired to
taste that blood, salty to his tongue, to gorge himself upon it. How badly
his body ached to feel that blood coursing down his throat, rushing into
his brain, making it swim drunk with power in a terrible and bestial swoon
as pure as rage.
Richard bit Calista reactively
on the shoulder, just enough to break her soft skin for one taste. Just
one little taste. One little drop upon his tongue and his head swam and
his vision began to blur, but quickly it began to return with a new flood
of sensation as his fiancé screamed. This was like a sheer power
consuming him; a high, his body pumping with a dark, enhanced feeling.
A sensation and a power that he had forever yearned for and as Calista's
heart pumped violently as if her life wanted to slip away, Richard craved
for something more.
It was then that he began
shredding with stronger than human jaws and filleting layer upon layer
of Calista's skin away as he swallowed, only to reveal more blood, gushing
black red into his throat after the skin, and beneath, the flesh of her
muscle, ripe, which he shredded. Tendons tearing. Sinew ripping. To the
plate of her bone, tracing its edges with his teeth, now like steel; devouring
...
For the first time in his
life, Richard felt fulfilled, forever stronger, felt strong and confident.
He had devoured Calista; consumed every drop of blood, her every scrap
of flesh, her very eccense of life down to consuming her soul, her fear
and even drawing into him the blood and flesh of their unborn child which
he had torn from Calista's womb with his own hand. Not with remorse, but
with a savage greed found only among the fiercest of all predators.
He killed at random at first,
for a human fear of getting caught. Perhaps from an uncertainty of his
skill in the beginning, from long moments of doubt and too many fears racing
through his head.
"What if I get caught?"
Richard asked himself, "and what if they throw me in prison?"
He could see it in his head;
those thick headlines, in nearly wet ink in the papers nationwide:
"VAMPIRE KILLER CAPTURED"and
"CANNIBAL TO BE EXECUTED"
He could see himself being
hunted down like a dog by a legion of cops dressed in SWAT gear; the gleam
of one hundred flashing lights from the police cruisers blinding his blood
filled eyes as his skull, cracked by the butts of assault rifles throbbed
and his vision stung in a blur. The daily beatings by other inmates in
the prison yard while the guards turned their backs with smirks written
upon their faces. His last meal; tasteless and silent but for the ticking
of his doomsday clock whose minute hand seemed to spin as fast as its second
hand. The long and slow march down a dimly lit corridor whose caged lights
gave off an eerie, flickering buzz in a prelude to what lie ahead at the
end of this endless hallway and once having passed through those steel,
double doors into a bright room, only to be greeted by an electric chair,
looking more a torture implement than a killing machine with its metal
skeleton bolted to the floor and its steel helm skull beckoning him.
Those sweat wreaking straps
over his skin ....
And for a second, a darkness
where once there was dim and dark light underneath the hood enveloping
his head, and then all seemed to be in vivid and distorted sound as the
flick of a switch permeated in his ears.
It was then that he felt
it leap through his body. A sudden charge that seemed to come from his
insides and work its way to his skin in a numb tingling sensation. For
a moment he felt empowered, and a rage began to swirl in his head that
shouted "you can't fucking kill me!". And then, then there was something
else ...
The stench of his shit flowing
down his leg, mingled with a faint trace of urine as he felt the electricity
flowing through his bones, arc into his blood vessels, toiling inside them
like a fiery cauldron and burning outwards to his skin, and searing off
the first layer that only curled off his flesh in a white, toiling, wispy
haze that stunk of burnt hair and seemed to toil above him in a noxious
cloud. His insides, burning, while his muscles baked with heat, nearly
cooking him, reminding him of a great bird that Calista had nearly reduced
to charcoal one Thanksgiving afternoon that now seemed another life ago.
And he screamed; the pain swelling inside him until he seemed to rupture,
and he had burst; his eye sockets, nose and mouth spewing thick, hot and
burnt black blood that crept over his flesh.
And only then was there
a release; a pitch black darkness and a sick feeling of absolutely nothing.
Suddenly he had awoken to
the bright heat of the day; the sweat rolling off his slick skin like veins
of tiny, stinking, salty rivers. For a moment he felt sick; practically
having to crawl into the bathroom where he puked stinging bile into the
dirty white basin.
Richard looked up to see
himself; his true self, evil and red eyed staring back at him in the dirty
mirror, his canines long, sharp and pointed, gleaming behind his lips and
his eyes, large and dilated.
"Oh, what's the matter,
Rikki?" his voice, but lower, spoke, "you afraid?"
His image scowled for a
moment as Richard stared.
"Cat got your fucking tongue,
you weak little shit?!"
Richard blinked.
"You little bitch!" it rang.
"You're fucking worthless!
Poor, poor little Rikki. Oh, whimpering in horror at the things you make
inside your head!" the thing whined mockingly.
"You're fucking waste!"
The thing scowled, raised
a clawed finger to its brow and tapped it nervously to its temple in what
seemed a lighter vein.
"Afraid of the police?"
the thing asked matter of factly.
"Yeah." Rikki answered,
"What if they catch me?"
The thing smiled, reassuringly
showing a mouthful of pointed teeth.
"Oh, do you really think
they can catch me?!"
Things became easier for
Richard after that. He began to hunt with a newly found pleasure, learning
to savor the kill. Stalking them stealthily or obfuscated as a smiling
assassin. He learned to play with his victims, often taking weeks to finish
them off. No longer did he have a fear of anything in the world, let alone
the women. Women, he'd learned were especially easy prey. They were far
too trusting it seemed. Just a few kind and flattering words with a flash
of a confident smile, just be sure not to show the snarl of those growing
and pointed canines set into his strong, steel like jaws, and they were
easy, trusting quarry; and they were even easier to kill.
It was all over the papers.
Headlines like:
"LOCAL GIRL MISSING", "BODY
COUNT MOUNTS" and "POLICE STILL BAFFLED".
He saved them all; treasured
mementos over the months, a scrapbook worth of clippings.
Arrogant, he'd even allowed
them to discover his killing fields by leaving a well placed, shattered
femur where some children would surely find it and even stood amongst the
crowd of reporters behind the police line as an army of cops scoured the
lot for more remains. They numbered 49 in all, which made Richard chuckle
for he had killed 51. Two had been pregnant.
Prey was becoming slim.
Even the hookers were becoming cautious. He hadn't killed in a month. It
may have been more than a month, but who was keeping track anymore? This
was routine and he even found that his need to kill only lingered in a
warming hunger. He'd even killed men; a dozen or more by now, for he was
the master predator and all the human race was his prey.
"Top of the fucking food
chain!" his reflection in the mirror often boasted.
Women or men, it didn't
matter now. They were all "meat", and he'd even taken down a huge, leather
clad biker one night.
"A real monster. A fucking
giant! He had shoulders this wide!" he'd boast to himself as he held his
arms wide as if to describe the man's girth.
He had taken him forcibly;
as a sort of test to himself, opposed to creeping up from behind, but head
on in a struggle, even tearing the handgun from the man's clutch after
the giant had struck him with little effect.
As he shredded into the
giant and devoured that first hunk of red flesh, Richard realized that
the biker too had been a predator. Not a predator like Richard, but he
had killed before and he had done so passionately and without recoil. Taking
this man down was especially satisfying and he savored every morsel of
crimson flesh that he could scrape from his bones with his teeth.
Yet Richard's favorite prey
was still women. They were so weak, so easy to take down and so out of
tune that it always reminded him of the first kill.
The girl was bold, or just
plain fucking stupid, Richard thought to himself as he inserted the key
into his apartment door's lock. Real bold, or just nieve.
She had actually walked
over to him and plopped her ass down in the chair in front of him after
he had picked her out in the bar. Real bold; asked him if he'd buy her
a drink, flashed a smile with innocent jade like eyes and asked if they
could go to his place.
He had never had it so easy,
he thought, as she slipped her panties off and straddled him on the bed.
That was until she dug her
claws into his throat and pinned him to the bed with a single hand, her
eyes mad and dilated, frenzy in their color.
Richard tried to struggle,
but it was futile. The bitch was strong, real fucking strong and that enraged
him.
"Get off me you bitch!"
he fumed. "Get off me or I'll fucking kill you!"
The girl smiled coyly.
"Oh, don't you like this?",
her voice innocent.
She gnashed her teeth; two
sharp canines.
"Little news flash for ya,
honey" she smirked. "I'm the top of the fucking food chain! And you?! You're
just fucking meat!"
And the girl began shredding
him, devouring ...
Read more by and about Kailleaugh
Andersson here.