26. Roderick Galloway

Age 9

"Why didyou put it up there?" Gage squeaks.

I carry the ladder to the upper shelf by the rafters. Mrs. Galloway—I haven't been allowed to call her my mother since Gage was born—puts baskets of dead flowers up there, saying it brings life into the house. I don't know about that, but I do know that she never goes up there, not even to dust. The dead rat has been safe there for over a day now.

Gage's blue eyes blink up at me, so little and sweet. For a second, I feel good, like I'm the protective older brother I'm supposed to be. He doesn't get the difference between blood and adoption yet, so he still listens to me. Big brother perks and all.

Can I even call him a brother, though? I was adopted into the family while he was born into it.

"Look," I say. "I'm too heavy. It's better if I hold on to the ladder. You can go up there and see it. There's a rope up there. You can hold on to it if you get scared."

Gage's eyes zigzag across me, like he's not sure if he should believe me. He's four, but he can already tell that what we're doing is probably not allowed. It's annoying. It's not really a lie. He is lighter, and it is better if someone stays down here, making sure the ladder stays stable.

That's not why I'm telling him to do this, though.

"Trust me, okay?" I say.

"Mom will get mad at us," he says.

"Mrs. Galloway won't know if we do it quickly," I argue. "You want to see it, right?"

He scratches behind his ear. "Yeah. I do."

"It's really cool." I smile. "You can see the bones in its stomach."

"Really?"

I grin. "I'll be right here. Don't be scared."

"I'm not scared."

He straightens, eager to prove that he's cool like his big brother. He climbs the ladder, and I keep it steady at the bottom. My skin buzzes like I'm full of static electricity.

He stops at the second rung from the top.

"Roddy?" he asks.

"You see that rope?" I ask.

A length is tied to the rafter, long enough that it'll reach him. Gage puts it around his arm, hooking into it. It took me a while to figure it out, but it's just like the magazine I took from the grocery store.

The rope around the woman's neck.

Her eyes round, popping from her head like a bug.

The veins bubbling under her skin.

"No," I say. "Put it around your neck. It'll hold your weight better. It'll be balanced."

"Balanced?"

"Your neck, Gage."

Gage does as he's told, and the rope becomes a necklace.

"Okay," he says. "Now what?"

"Push the flower basket," I say. "The rat is behind there."

The basket shifts. He squeals with delight. My heartbeat drums inside of me.

"Wow," he says. "Gross! It's squishy. Rod, you have to see?—"

I knock the ladder out from under him. The rope clings to his neck. Gage panics, his tiny hands clinging to the restraint, pulling it from his neck. He gasps. It's not like the rope in the picture—not as tight—and he gets his stubby fingers under it.

Why isn't it like the picture?

Does the type of rope matter? Or is it the knot?

I'll be so mad at myself if I messed up the knot.

"Roddy!" he chokes. "Help! Please?—"

He dangles like a tire swing. My mind is fuzzy, like I'm underwater, looking up at the surface. His face turns pink. Then red. His fingers match. Everything swells like a balloon. His eyes widen, round, almost like that woman in the magazine.

"Gage!" a woman shouts, shoving me out of the way. Her flowery dress flashes past me, the same color as the dead flowers in the rafters. She grabs the little boy, holding up his feet.

"Mommy!" he cries.

Mrs. Galloway lifts him up. Gage wheezes. She glares at me.

"Get the scissors," she demands. "A knife. Something!"

My vision focuses on her. I imagine her in the rope. The knot around her neck until her skin pops like a water balloon. Her insides leaking everywhere, like fingerpaint and red slime.

"Roderick!" she shouts. "Are you stupid? Don't just stand there! Get the scissors! My baby could've died!"

Die?

I didn't want to kill him. I just?—

I don't know what it was, actually.

How long does it take for someone to die like that?

"Now, Roderick!"

I startle and run to the kitchen. I scramble through the drawers and hastily grab the kitchen shears. I rush over, and Mrs. Galloway rips them from my hands, cutting through the rope in a few quick jabs. Gage falls into her arms and sobs like a baby. He snuggles into her boobs. She rubs his head.

"It's okay, baby," she whispers to him. Her eyes narrow at me like I'm dirty, like she knows it's my fault.

It's not. I told him to go up there, but he wasn't supposed to get hurt. I just wanted to see what would happen. I wanted to see if it would be like the magazine.

She points a finger at me. "You," she hisses. "Basement."

I hate going down there.

"Please, Mom," I whisper. "I didn't?—"

"Don't call me Mom." Her eyes widen, the red lines around her pupils like bloody spiderwebs. "I'm not going to argue about this."

My chest hurts. I lower my head. She didn't even let me explain. My hands curl into fists as anger fizzes inside of me, my skin hotter than an oven. She assumes the worst of me.

Sometimes, I want to be that awful.

I can't let her win. She hates it when I question her parenting choices.

"Will you bring me dinner this time?" I ask. "Or are you going to let me starve again?"

She pushes Gage off of her lap and grabs me by the hair. I scream, and she shoves me forward. The door to the basement swings open. She pushes me onto the landing.

"Stay down there," she snarls.

The door swings shut.

Darkness surrounds me.

After I catch my breath, I walk down the steps, feeling along the wall so I don't trip this time.

Down here, my thoughts are all I have.

I think of Mrs. Galloway in the rope again. How long would it take for her to die? Probably longer than Gage. Longer than Mr. Galloway too. She's too much of a fighter.

Someone like Mrs. Galloway needs more than a rope. Something quicker. Something better. And she needs to be by herself.

She saved Gage, but no one should save her.

* * *

Age 13

The rat's body bends completely in half, and the insides ooze out onto my hands. It's nasty, and I do it for that exact reason. If I'm dirty, then Mrs. Galloway refuses to go near me. And when I get a good throw, I can hit her with the guts, and her disgusted face makes it worth it.

A bloody butter knife is under me, hidden from view. My latest attempt at a weapon. It worked on the rat, but will it work on a bitch like Mrs. Galloway?

It doesn't matter. Even if the butter knife doesn't work, she'll get what she deserves one day.

The basement door creaks open. Light floods in from the upper floor. I squint my eyes and cross my fingers that it's Gage. He always brings me sandwiches.

Mrs. Galloway steps into the light, her silhouette bulkier than normal, her dress stopping at her shins. One of her better dresses. It must be a special occasion. Lucky me.

"Pissed yourself again?" she scoffs. "You disgusting little boy."

I grit my teeth. Of all the things she calls me, "little boy" is the one that pisses me off the most. I'm thirteen years old, and yet she still refuses to see me as anything other than some little boy she can control. I guess that's what happens when you're adopted by someone who never actually wanted you in the first place, especially when you're replaced by the biological son she finally had.

She flicks the light switch. A single bulb flickers in the corner, casting shadows along the floor, lighting the shower.

"Get up," she orders. I stand, carefully moving the butter knife near the wall where she can't see it. "Wash yourself."

I turn toward the stairs. She points down at me.

"Your shower is there," she says.

I risk a moment to glare at her. The curly, teased hair. The shoulder pads. A pastel floral design on her dress. She really wants to show off if she's making me take a shower.

It's not really a shower. There's no curtain or doors. It's just a drain and a shower head. She had it installed so I could clean myself "like a proper man."

But a proper man doesn't stay locked in a basement for days on end.

She crosses her arms and watches me bathe. I consider jerking off like last time, just to make her sick. But getting to be outside—in the daylight—is still better than being alone down here. It's worth behaving.

In the car, she hands me a box of saltine crackers. I devour the entire sleeve before we even hit the main part of town.

"Do you have to be a pig?" she asks. "Why can't you be more like him?"

One of my classmates crosses the street. Another teenager with black hair like me. I forget his name; he's in my science class, I think. Some kid with rich parents. An only child. It's hard to remember my classmates though. I'm not in school much. It's not like I get a choice.

"He's adopted too, you know that?" Mrs. Galloway says. "And he treats his family with respect."

And his family probably treats him with dignity,I think. Not like a little rodent they hide in the basement.

The words don't come out.

A while later, the station wagon slows. We reach two layers of gates with barbed wire at the top. Nevada Southern Detention Center is written on a red and white sign. A small box—almost like a standing closet—is right outside of the gates. A man comes out and checks Mrs. Galloway's ID. He glances at me, then waves us through.

Noise echoes in the hallways. We come to a big gray cafeteria with long tables, kind of like the tables at school.

A woman sits by herself. Her head down. A receding hairline with black strands.

"Hello?" Mrs. Galloway says. "Ms. Gaines, do you hear me? I brought your son."

The woman doesn't move. She faces the table.

"Ms. Gaines?" she asks. "Do you want your son to end up like you?"

Finally, the woman looks up. Her brown eyes are dark and regular, like they could belong to anyone. My eyes are like that too.

But her eyes are circled with bags and wrinkles. She's either old, or she doesn't sleep at all.

I don't know which is more annoying: being Mrs. Galloway's adopted reject or Ms. Gaines's biological spawn.

A hand bangs into the back of my head. I snap around, facing Mrs. Galloway.

"What?" I growl.

"How about you, Roderick? Do you want to end up like your mother? Your real mother?"

"Of course not."

"She's disgusting, isn't she?" The black-haired woman drops her chin again, and Mrs. Galloway lifts her nose. "No matter how bad it gets, you're still better off with us than you are with her." She clicks her tongue. "You should be grateful for that."

Mrs. Galloway escorts me back through the prison with a hand on my shoulder, as if she wants to show the inmates and guards that she'll protect me. It's just for show. The bitch only cares about her precious little Gage.

The station wagon is silent as we drive. For a while, we're the only car on the highway. I fantasize about ways to kill Mrs. Galloway—decapitation, burning her alive, a gunshot wound to the neck—and I crumple the cracker wrapper in my hands. It irritates her when I don't sit still, and I like grating on her nerves. Her reactions always energize me.

"You should be more grateful," Mrs. Galloway repeats. "I saved you from a life of poverty. If it weren't for me, you would've been a drug addict by now."

I stare at her blankly, then I laugh. I laugh so hard, I choke on my own spit.

"What?" she asks. "What's so funny?"

"You didn't want to save me," I say. "You just liked the idea of being a savior."

She faces me as she drives forward. If I provoke her enough, we may get into an accident. We may even die. It's exciting.

"You ungrateful little?—"

"Look at yourself in the mirror, you dumb cunt!" I shout with amusement. "You can't save someone like me. You made me this way."

The brakes screech. The car lurches forward.

Mrs. Galloway slaps me across the face. The impact echoes in the station wagon.

Stars fleck across my vision.

"You were born this way," she says, her voice low and calculated. "Make no mistake, little boy. You come from a long line of trash, and that's who you'll always be."

I bare my teeth at her. Both of us leer at each other, the rage firing within us.

I never asked to be her adopted son, and yet she treats me like I'm her burden to carry. An outsider. A monster she has to keep in a cage.

One day, I'll tear her to shreds.

"Call me that name again, and I will make sure you regret it," she says in a low voice. She turns back to the steering wheel and puts the car into drive.

Once we're at the house, she forces me to walk in front of her. In the kitchen, she unlocks the basement door.

The butter knife is near the wall. I just need to get her near it.

"Come down with me," I say, using my thickest, saddest tone of voice. "Please, Mrs. Galloway. I don't want to be alone?—"

She opens the door and kicks the back of my leg. I fall to my hands and knees. The door slams shut. The key twists in the lock.

Her shadow moves across the opening at the bottom of the door.

I stay on the landing for a while. My insides vibrate with frustration.

I need to stay calm. To be good. To stop giving her excuses to keep me down here. I need to play along and be the son she wants.

It's hard though.

A rat scurries across the cement; its steps soft like rain. There are so many of them in the basement, but she blames the ruined electrical cords on me. Always me. I'm the problem she needs to fix.

I need to fix her.

I walk down the stairs slowly, so as not to disturb the rats. When they think I'm one of them, they forget me. Ignore me. It makes catching them more fun.

I need to do the same with Mrs. Galloway. Make her think I'm an obedient, loving son. That way, she doesn't suspect what's coming next.

I run my hand along the floor and grab the butter knife. The blade scrapes my palm, but it doesn't even scratch me. It won't hurt Mrs. Galloway.

But an ax will.

* * *

Age 15

In the backyard, Mrs. Galloway stares off into the desert. I wash our dishes in the kitchen sink, just like she told me to. That way, I can watch her from the window.

We're alone. Mr. Galloway and Gage are shopping for new uniforms. Gage keeps growing. He's tall, like Mrs. Galloway. Even though I've been good for a while now, they still get my clothes from the lost and found bin at school.

The small crowbar sticks out of my back pocket like a second spine. The ax is already outside. I check the silencer on my gun. It's funny how much you can get in a hardware store without the cashier batting an eye. An ax. A crowbar. Bolt cutters. The gun was trickier, but that was expected. The same gun seller gave me a discount on the hunting knife too.

I'm ready.

Easing through the back door, I creep forward, careful with my steps, using the same weight distribution that I do with the rats. You keep silent, and they keep to themselves, just like Mrs. Galloway. She's an infestation, a disease that's rotting inside of me. A sickness that contaminates everything around it.

I'm close now—close enough that I can smell her perfume.

A rock crunches under my foot.

Mrs. Galloway moves to turn her head.

I swing the crowbar into the back of her skull. She falls to the ground, the crushing thud of her body reminiscent of a teenage boy falling down the basement stairs.

I drag her by the hair, bringing her to the giant stone. It's flat and brown, an eyesore that she could never get Mr. Galloway to take care of. Back when we were little, Gage and I used to play with our toy soldiers on it. Knocking each of them down. Kill the soldiers. One by one.

Picking her up by the back of her dress, I lay her on the stone, her chest down, her head turned to the side. It's like she's on an executioner's block from the medieval period.

There's no judge or crowd to cheer me on, to say that I'm doing the right thing by getting rid of a scumbag like her. It's never been about justice though.

This is about my childhood dream coming true.

This is purely for me.

The hunting knife slides along her neck, the tendrils of muscle and esophagus popping into view. The nerves and vessels slop out like wet dog food. The knife slides back and forth, like a see-saw, and my mind wanders to her words: You were born this way.

Can a child be born with anger in their heart? Or is this the result of being removed from my biological mother? Am I the consequence of being adopted by a woman who never wanted me?

These questions are pointless though. The answers won't stop me from killing this cunt.

The knife stops, stunted by the spine. The bones are painted pink with blood.

The ax will be more practical now.

A car rumbles across the dirt. The engine cuts off. A door slams. I take the gun out of the holster, ready for them.

"Honey?" Mr. Galloway shouts. "Are you still out back? This kid has your genes. He's a weed."

"We had to go three sizes up," Gage adds.

The back door opens. The two of them freeze.

Blood covers me.

Gage runs, disappearing into the house.

"Roderick?" Mr. Galloway shouts. "The hell are you?—"

I shoot Mr. Galloway in the thigh. He falls, his knees hitting the dirt like a wooden plank snapping in half.

"Argh!" he wails, then he crawls toward us. Is he trying to save his bitch wife?

"Sweetheart," he says to the mostly decapitated corpse. "Don't go. I'll get him, okay?"

I shoot him again, this time in the right shoulder. He falls back. My dick pulses, and I grab the ax off of the back of the house.

"Please, Roderick," Mr. Galloway wheezes. "You don't have to do this. We won't go to the cops. We?—"

It takes one firm swing at her spine, and the rest of her head comes completely off. The mass drops to the ground like a bowling ball.

Mr. Galloway whimpers like a pathetic dog. My heart beats even faster. He knows it's over now.

I look down my nose at him like he's a piece of roadkill.

"Roddy," he whispers. "How could you?"

I put the gun in his hand. He's so weak, he can barely grip it. A sense of invincibility surges through me, like I'm growing in size. Mr. Galloway has always been taller, bigger, stronger than me, but never enough to stand up to protect me from his wife. And now, it's like I'm a giant compared to him. I never dreamed of killing him, but now that it's inevitable, I want to give him the chance to get rid of me. I'm not scared of death.

I hold up my empty hands.

"Do it," I say. "Kill me."

"She was your mother," he gasps.

I let my hands fall to my sides. I guess that righteous death isn't in the cards for me.

"She wasn't a mother," I say.

I bend down. I hold his hand and the gun to his temple. He blinks at me, the life draining from his eyes.

"They'll figure it out," he says. "They'll know you did it."

I smile. "I don't care."

I pull the trigger.

His body falls limp. More blood spills onto me.

I examine the area. Gage is here somewhere.

As I check the house, my bloody footprints leave a trail behind me. Gage isn't in his bedroom, the closet, or even Mr. and Mrs. Galloway's bedroom upstairs. He must be exactly where he thinks I won't check: the basement.

Even at ten years old, Gage is scared of the basement. He's never been locked in there, and yet he knows the possibilities. The unknown is always scarier than the reality.

The rats are quiet, hiding from Gage. I keep the lights off, letting my eyes get used to the dark basement.

His shadow crouches in the corner. Hiding like that, I see the baby inside of him. The little kid who used to look up to me.

He knows better now. Mrs. Galloway made sure of that.

"Come out, Gage," I hum.

He lurches forward, smacking into me. The force knocks the wind out of my lungs. I'm stunned, but not long enough to let him escape. I wrestle him until I'm on top, and I beat his head into the cement. He stills.

Eventually, his eyelids flutter awake.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. Tears fill his eyes. He's probably telling the truth. But what is he sorry for? Is he sorry that he never tried to use his beloved status to protect me? "Roddy, I'm sorry. I'm?—"

Sorry is a word, and words can't save you.

"I'm not," I say.

I shoot him in the forehead.

I leave Mrs. Galloway near the rock for now. Then I drag Mr. Galloway to the basement, leaving him and Gage in a pile. Mopping up the blood trail takes forever.

No one checks on the house. The silencer must have done the job. Our house is out on the edge of town. Hardly anyone goes this way to begin with. I'm lucky that way.

I change my clothes into one of my better outfits, then I go to town, waiting for my look-alike to come out of the arcade. The boy heads to his car.

"Hey," I say.

He waves. "What's up?"

"You smoke, right?" I ask. "I need a ride. I'll give you some weed."

His eyes scan the street before turning back to me. "Where do you live?"

"The north side," I say.

He waves over to his car. "What kind of weed is it?"

His car crawls through the town. He says something about one of the girls from school—some bitch he's asking out to the football game or something—and I pretend like I know who she is.

His car pulls into the driveway, right next to Mr. Galloway's car. Gage's new uniforms are still in the back.

I hesitate in the passenger's seat.

"Is this your house?" he asks.

"You should come in," I say. "I've got to package it. It'll take a while."

"Package it?" he asks. "It's that fresh?"

"It's good shit. You can give it to—what's her name?"

"Stephanie."

"Right." I smirk. "It'll get her in the mood after the game."

He chuckles. "All right. You got me there."

He follows me inside. My ears throb. I open the basement door, then step to the side.

"It's down there," I say. "I'll let you go first."

As soon as he's in front of me, I kick him in the back of the knees. He tumbles down the stairs like a basketball. His groan echoes.

I close the door behind us.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"You asshole," he coughs. "You fucking pushed me!"

I grab the gun from behind the stairs, then hold it up. My eyes focus on his form. I can see his head. I'm close now. Close enough that I can't miss.

"It was an accident," I say. After all, his death is an accidental necessity to this.

I shoot the gun. He collapses.

I switch on the light. A father, a ten-year-old, and a black-haired teenager. I wish I could've indulged in some of the techniques I've dreamed of over the years. But faking your own death doesn't leave much time for pleasure or exploration, and I need to focus on my plan.

Mrs. Galloway waits in the backyard, her head resting on the ground. That was the only murder I truly wanted: revenge and ambition wrapped in one glorious death. The rest were purely for survival.

I pull Mr. Galloway's body to the side, resting him against one of the support beams. Then I put the gun in his lap with his hand tucked underneath it, as if he killed himself. I scrawl a note about being a failure and deserving a bullet for each person he failed. I even smear the paper with his blood for effect. I douse the two young bodies in lighter fluid. Burned to a char, the cops won't be able to tell who is who. My look-alike will disappear, like so many kids our age.

And me, Roderick Galloway? He will have burned to a crisp. Another Galloway that came to a tragic end.

I hide behind a large cacti plant in the backyard. As the smoke rises up, filtering through the house, a car slows, then zooms off. A few minutes later, a fire truck shows up. Then the police. Sirens wail through the desert.

No one looks in my direction. It's like I've already disappeared.

A stretcher comes out of the house with a tarp-covered body. The cluster of people around the house try to make sense of the family murder-suicide. They run around like animals, searching for answers, tears and panic in their eyes, knowing they aren't immune to a tragedy like that; they could be next. I squeeze my shaft tighter, relishing in that power. I did that. I'm the one in control. The one who finally killed the bitch and her followers. I created that chaos.

I jerk off so fucking hard, a blister on my palm breaks open, the pus oozing over my shaft. The adrenaline lifts my head and dick so high, my hand doesn't even hurt. It's so loud at the house that no one hears me moan.

I stay in the desert, waiting until night comes. I don't know what happens next, but I'm not Roderick Galloway anymore.

Roderick is dead.

* * *

Age 19

Michael Hall has light brown hair and movie-star blue eyes. He's older, nearly thirty. But in boots, I'm as tall as him. I can pass for thirty. Add colored contacts and some hair bleach, and I fit right in with his family.

Now that he and his wife, Miranda, have moved into the Galloway House, there's been some repairs and renovations. A gray front door. Cheerful blue shutters. Yellow desert flowers in a pot on the front porch. Even the rats are gone. A new life for newlyweds. A real family.

Couples like them always settle into a big house and breed like rats until they've created an infestation for themselves. I don't have any children, but my own infatuation with the house seems to be like that. A disease I can't be cured of.

Living a normal life like Michael Hall seems different. Boring. Calm.

I've never had a calm life.

As Michael disappears into the casino to start his shift, a dark-haired woman with a small nose leans against the bar. She beams at me with watery eyes; she must be drunk already. The desperate air around her draws me in. She wants attention. An easy target.

I haven't killed anyone since the Galloways. Taking advantage of women doesn't count. What I do is violent, but I don't kill them. There's just something enticing about overpowering a woman, especially when you can make her feel small. Insignificant. A toy to be discarded. Something to play with until I'm bored.

Sometimes, it gets boring fucking them like this. Sometimes, I even date them first to see how far they'll go.

Tonight, I'm hasty. I've got a new piercing, and I want to see how it feels inside of her.

"Hey, gorgeous," I say with a wink. "What's your name?"

"Samantha," she says. I wave to the bartender, ordering us a round of drinks. "And you are?"

Tonight, I want to be someone normal. Someone with a family. A wife. Unborn children. Someone who can live in that house and have my perfect future wrapped up before me. Someone I'll never be.

"Michael Hall," I say.

"Thanks for the drink, Mikey-boy," she says. She laughs at the nickname. My blood curdles.

What a joke,I imagine Mrs. Galloway saying. A stupid girl for a stupid boy.

I blink slowly, getting that dumb cunt's voice out of my head. Samantha straightens, noticing my change in demeanor.

"You're beautiful," I say, giving her my best charm.

She blushes, turning away slightly. "You're just saying that."

I am, but I give her the practiced smile I've learned over the last few years. Pretending to be normal, like him.

"You have no idea how incredible you are," I say. "Let me show you."

Within an hour, we're heading back to her hotel room, and that itch burns inside of me. It started when I made my brother look at that dead rat and put the rope around his neck. It's the same crawling sensation that swelled up inside of me when I looked at Mrs. Galloway bent over that rock.

I don't have to hurt her. This drunk girl. Samantha.

I can get past it.

I don't have to kill her.

She pulls at my shirt, and I shove her against the bed. She gasps—both turned on and taken aback by my charm switching off. I flip her around, bending her over the bed. I pull her hair until her neck is taut for slaughter.

I picture an ax above that slender neck.

"Jesus Christ," she says. "You're going to hurt me."

I ignore her, pulling down her pants. She wiggles and pushes against my cock to convince herself that I'm that needy for her. That my aggression is part of our foreplay.

I want to kill her so badly.

"Hey," she pants. "I'm not on birth control. Do you have a condom?"

I press the head of my cock against her, my new Prince Albert piercing tugging at her opening. The ring represents Mrs. Galloway's death. Soon, I'll add more. One for each kill in that house.

The drunk bitch grimaces, and the head of my cock stings. Her warm cunt wraps around me, brutal and raw. I should be using a condom—not to protect her, but to prevent my piercing from getting infected.

But I don't care about an infection. I want to feel her pain.

"Ow. Shit. That hurts. Hey?—"

She tries to turn over, but I dig my nails into her waist.

"Condom!" she shouts. "Condom!"

I hit the back of her head, stunning her. Her jaw drops open, and she lies against the mattress. Like a dumb little lamb, she stays silent. It feels good to invade her like this. To rip a woman's sense of autonomy apart.

Bent over a bed.

Over a rock.

Stabbing her from the inside.

Cutting off her head.

In my mind, Mrs. Galloway cries. My cock burns. The bitch squeezes around me. A woman's head—I don't know if it's Mrs. Galloway's or the bitch I'm fucking right now—drops.

I squirt my load inside of her.

I sigh. My dick squishes out of her. Her juices and my cum cover the head of my dick, but with a good rinse and some antiseptic, the piercing should be fine. And if not, I'll have the piercer look at it.

The drunk bitch cries into a pillow. It's irritating.

"Who are you?" she sobs.

Tears glisten on her cheeks. I could make up an excuse about my change in behavior, but her tears irritate me. Why cry when she knows it won't change anything? It's her fault for inviting me in here, and it'll be her fault even if she tells the cops. She should've known better than to invite a stranger into her hotel room.

Besides, I didn't kill her. I wanted to, but I'm not a killer. Not anymore.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she cries, her voice cracking.

I snicker, then look down my nose at her.

"What?" I ask. "You think this is about you?" I get in her face. "You're not special."

Her eyes shut. I sigh. I'm bored of her already. I need something more, and the drunk girl can't give it to me. I let myself out of the hotel room.

Months pass. More drunk girls. More nights where I'm good. I take what I want, but I don't take it all. I spare their lives. And that means I'm good. Normal.

But no matter how much I use them, it doesn't change how I feel when I park outside of my childhood home. The lights inside of the Galloway House are bright, almost as if there was never any darkness or violence inside of those walls. The married couple—Michael and Miranda Hall—live their lives as if that's exactly what they deserve.

I want to see them suffer. And I can't let it go.

Maybe I am a killer.

There's only one way to find out.

When the Halls are out for work, I put sedatives in all of their drinks. Then I wait in the basement for the night to come.

Once they're both passed out, I string the wife's neck into a proper noose, keeping her lying asleep in the bed for as long as I can. When I'm sure that the noose is the right length, I pull her off of the bed, letting it tighten around her neck. Hanging from the rafters, she wakes and begins to struggle. I plunge my dick inside of her as she twitches around. There isn't much texture with this oversized condom—the only rubber strong enough for my piercings—but she's a rag doll, slinging around, and her cunt has a literal death grip on my shaft.

It's a mistake to fuck her with a cock piercing. She'll bruise.

I'll use a knife later, I decide. Make it look like her husband got vicious there.

The husband opens his eyes, his mouth moving, but he's too drugged to do anything. Tears start to fall, and a sense of satisfaction washes over me, warm and comforting.

He watches me. His eyes glassy and blue. Acknowledging that I'm in control. That I have the complete and total power in this house. A god looking down on his helpless mortals.

When the wife's pussy loosens—relaxing into death—I come. I come so hard that my eyes go white, and everything blurs around me.

My head floats. My dick slides out.

I take out my pocketknife and jam it inside of her until the blood drips down, oozing like sludge.

I pull out Michael Hall's cock. It's bigger than mine. Anger floods me, pissed off that a perfect fucker like him also has a perfectly sized cock, but he's about to die, and it's not like his above-average dick will help him. I rub his wife's blood on his dick like he fucked her bloody cunt too. The fucker gets hard, staring at his dead wife. He closes his eyes in shame.

I smirk to myself. We're all fucked up, aren't we? We can't help it. Our bodies simply react.

The cops around here are tired, understaffed, and overworked. If they think this crime is unremarkable, they won't look any further. A murder-suicide isn't something they can prevent like other violent crime, and there's enough to worry about in Nye County. A suicide note will seal the deal. I can even print it out from their home office.

I start laughing to myself. It's the same day I killed the Galloways, almost like it's fate. The cops will be too distracted to connect it all; it helps to commit crime in an understaffed town like this.

I put the gun in Michael's hand. Tears run down his cheeks. He's too tired to say a word.

"Hold it like this," I say, helping him hold the gun to his temple. I have to clutch both of our hands around it. Eventually, he tightens his grasp. "There you go," I say using the same tone Mrs. Galloway used with Gage. "Such a good boy."

Then I pull the trigger.

* * *

Age 42

"Craven Gaines," Ned, the mall owner, says. "How's the Galloway House looking?"

The idiot mall owner shakes my hand like it means something, and most of the time, I return that respect. No matter how hard I try, I can't get a job at the police department, but Ned trusts me to do his private security. Sometimes, he even lets me carry a gun. Most of the time, it's a stun gun, like he thinks I'm a joke. A stun gun can't kill anyone.

But I can. And I have.

"Officer Gaines," I correct him in my fake Southern accent.

He pats me on the shoulder. "Officer Gaines, my man."

"I recommend a fence," I say. I put my hands on my hips, emphasizing the stun gun stowed on my side. "Security cameras. Something to make sure the kids aren't messing around over here."

"All for a little spray paint?"

I furrow my brows. It's a little paint for him, but a goddamn liability for me. The Vegas death tour buses finally lost interest in the Galloway House, but the local kids still think it's fun to play truth or dare in a haunted house. I can't have extra visitors when it's my favorite place to experiment with my victims.

"You don't want it to get worse," I warn.

Ned nods. "All right. Research it. Send me what you think is best."

I wander around hardware store, idly searching for a fence. But when I see a hacksaw, my mind wanders to her.

Raven Sinclair. Her first name fits inside of mine.

I picture her with a hacksaw on her neck, blood squirting from the incisions. A pocket knife stabbed in her gut.

I buy the hacksaw.

When I had seen Rae for the first time waiting for a cab on the Strip years ago, she reminded me of Michael Hall. Her smile was perfect, comfortable, the ultimate picture of hopeful youth. That curiosity made me look into her life, which confirmed that she was sweetness and innocence personified.

At first, I wanted to analyze that. I promised myself I would keep my distance and observe her. With a mother who loves her, would Rae turn out normal, or would she turn out like me?

Now, I know. She is normal. Good. Just like them.

My fingers flex around the handle of the hacksaw, the urge to do something with her growing stronger by the minute. I've lost interest in her, but I'm not going to waste the knowledge that I've gathered; I'm going to use that information to kill her properly.

Good girls bore me, but good girls still deserve to die.

Evening comes, and I pick up an extra taxi shift. I put the hacksaw under the driver's seat, then I park the car on the curb beside Rae and her latest boyfriend. He opens the car door for her, and she slides across the back seat, her stockings swishing against the leather. She never leaves her legs exposed, always covering herself up with sheer stockings, the picture of purity.

The boyfriend stumbles in after her and immediately grabs her breasts. She smacks his arm playfully, then tucks her red hair behind her ear.

"You have to wait," she says coyly.

My skin crawls at those words. It's boring, how predictable she is. The experiment is over. The good stay pure, and filth like me rots. I don't need to keep her alive to confirm that.

I'll kill her tonight.