19. Crave

My cum dripsdown her legs. Blood and sweat cake her stockings like a layer of glue. Fingerprint bruises freckle her hips, and the belt hangs loose around her neck. If I gave it a few more minutes of squeezing, this shit would be over.

She's gone, but she's not dead yet.

You nasty little boy,my mother says in my mind. Playing with that rat like it'll love you back.

My mind is working against me, reasoning myself out of a situation that could put me in jail. For someone like me, it's both better and worse to keep someone around. Better to hold up the disguise of a normal person, but dangerous too. The closer they get, the more they know, and the easier it is for them to end your life in the free world.

The discarded needle lays to the side. Rae will be out until the morning.

I bend down, so close that I can see the pores on her nose. The jasmine perfume is faint now, doused by the stench of metallic blood.

I lift her head by the hair. "I'm going to kill you one day." I smirk. "Or maybe you'll kill me first."

I drop her head, letting her collapse back onto the couch. She moans in her sleep, and I cut all of her ties. Then I move her until she's lying on the couch. Was she that peaceful as an infant? As a teenager? Would she have bored me back then? Would I have strangled her before she became all of this?

Using my mother's voice, my mind mocks me: You wouldn't have. You know why? Because you're fucking obsessed, and you're too much of a coward to kill her now.

"God fucking damn it," I mutter.

I lean my knees onto the couch, right by her head. It wouldn't take much to crush her skull until she's nothing but pulp, and then this debate—to kill or not to kill—would be over.

And then I would be bored again. Another dead body to prove my supreme being. Another boring old serial killer.

But with Rae by my side, things are different. They're not as predictable as before.

I didn't expect her to call out and curse me.

Rae's brow creases and her eyelids flutter. She's dreaming. Everything is so easy for her right now.

I take off my mask. Clutch it in my hands. Another layer of my disguise leaving me.

I drop it onto her chest.

The moonlight is damp on her face, soaking her skin, and she's so peaceful, it's fascinating. I want her to wake up. To force her to see my real face. To be in so much horror that she doesn't know what to do with herself. To realize that she can't actually trust me.

She thinks I'm here to save her. To help her. My reasons for killing those men and not her are more selfish than that.

"You're weak," I say, but I know I'm not talking about her. I'm talking about me and my dick, about why I haven't killed her yet, about the fact that I know what will happen now.

If she becomes predictable, I'll have no use for her. And the closer I get, the more I can taste that inevitable end.

But it would be a waste to kill her now when I'm finally getting to know her.

I peer down at her. I'll let her keep the mask for now. She'll have to wait for her precious savior to return. She'll have to be patient when it comes to that ugly truth.

The truth is right in front of her, waiting for her to open her eyes. One day soon, she'll figure out the truth about how her father died, and that truth is far worse than any nightmare she's created for herself.