Thomas Hudson: Prologue of a Serial KillerMature

I awake in the comfort of my bed, in that special moment where you only feel and not have thoughts dictate. I enjoy that feeling. Otherwise I wouldn’t wake up at all. A beautiful ray of sunlight hits my eyes, as I half-heartedly raise a hand in defence. It had been a long night. Fragments swirled in my mind; each image becoming more tangible as I began to pull on my jeans and a clean T-shirt. I had been drinking, as my mouth was unbearably dry. But not enough as you would imagine, as no ache coursed through my head. I had cut down on drinking.

 I had not over-indulged with alcohol since Julia.

Thought I was clean, I felt strangely dirty nonetheless. A strange shadow was hung over the door to my bathroom. Ah, that’s where my date must be. I remember now. I remember everything.
I approached my bathroom slowly, pushing my dishevelled hair from my eyes. My hair was always getting into my eyes; it can be rather annoying. But I never once decided to go for a hair-cut. I always saw it as an unnecessary expense, as money is very tight at the moment.
I found myself standing over my sink, brushing my teeth with a usual monotonous motion I had undertaken every day. As I spat out the white paste, I saw a solitary hand hanging over my bath at an awkward angle. I turned slowly, without alarm or worry, as observed my ‘date’ for the previous evening. Not so high and mighty now.
Maybe it was because of my sometimes aloof manner, but I had not known her name. Then again, it is hard to understand anyone’s name if a plastic bag is forced over their face. Asphyxiation always worked a charm. She was still beautiful; her long black hair tangled and soaked with her blood but still beautiful nonetheless. Maybe her name was Joan? One of her friends referred to her as such. Perhaps it was. Anyway, Joan was still in her deep crimson dress which had received a fusillade of her spilled blood. It didn’t however; hide the large gash on her throat which was darker than the night before.

I should clean this up before having a shower; I am sure Joan would rather not get in the way.

With surprising strength, I heaved her body and carried her into the living room. Next to my abstract art, she looked no different. Maybe things would have been different if she had not looked at me in the way she did. Like I was a monster, like I was a creep. That irony escapes me now; I must dispose of the body. I found a butchers knife within the large gash on a cushion on my sofa. Best place to hide one if you need one.
It didn’t take long to cut up her body. Her flesh ripped easily like paper. But her bones snapped with a deafening noise. Thankfully, my only neighbours would not mind the racket. Cybil, who lives next door, is a valium whore and the person adjacent is a morphine vagrant. They never bothered me and I couldn’t care less about them.
Eventually, what was Joan was now a bloody mess of limbs and bone fragments. After retrieving a large black bag, I cleared her up from my floor. A trip to the pier should sort this mess once and for all.

But first I need a shower. My hands are splattered with blood.

The End

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