“Only the Lonely”—Iggy Pop
There have been few moments in my life when a small light has shone inside me, like flashlights off in the dark and distant. The first time was at my first real job—bagging at the quick shop down the street from my house. I was fifteen. She was eighteen and a cashier. I never had her heart, but for one reckless summer, she had every bit of mine. Her complete rejection when I finally worked up the nerve to ask her out crushed my little, previously untarnished heart.
The second time was in college, after the war and all the shit that came with it. Heather Montgomery. I met her in my English lit class my first year at Chapel Hill. She was vibrant and fresh and… overwhelming. I spent two years with her, pretending like nothing was going on with me, like I wasn't quietly suffering, before it all came crashing down. When my little sister was murdered, she just couldn't handle all that came with her death, especially when the devastation from Joanna's murder came to full realization. I couldn't cope, and she couldn't help me cope.
I don't fucking blame her.
The third time I felt that little flicker of light was two days ago when I had coffee with Miranda. She left me craving more conversation, more eyes lingering where they shouldn't. It's not like I can help myself. She's everything a warm-blooded male could want, all wrapped up in an awkward, irresistible package.
I'm a detective, and even I can't read this woman, and I think that's what intrigues me the most. She holds back so much but then gives away just enough. Just enough to make me want more. To keep her in my thoughts.
There are times in this life when the puzzle pieces start to fit. The universe lines up just enough. Times when the sun finally rises. It's hope. It's destiny. And in all my rotten years, and the handful of good ones, I haven't felt that often, but she stirs it in me. All my pain and confusion and hope—it's her burden too. My desperation, my acceptance, my drive? I see it in her. I see it in her eyes. I read it in her shoulders, her timidity, her doubt. And that makes the desire burn in me like a fuse inching toward detonation.
As my finger hovers over the Call button, Miranda's name on the iPhone screen, I can't help but think about just how much I'll fuck this up. If not now… certainly later.
I inevitably press my shaky finger against the button, but I get voicemail right away. I freeze, completely clueless as to how I should proceed. Actually leaving a message would be a good start, but as her sweet, delicate voice comes through the line in her message, words become useless to me. I'm a victim of my own complete inadequacy. The beep comes across the line, and I babble what is likely incoherent shit and hang up as quickly as I can.
Setting my phone back on the nightstand, I exchange it for the latest EA novel, Cry of the Afflicted. It got blasted in the reviews, but I absolutely love it. This is my third time through, and I'm still finding new shit in it. Halfway in and I'm devouring it as if it's the first time all over again. Most of the reviewers hated the book because it was too brutal… and of course because the antagonist won in the end. If it's not happily ever after these days, people lose their shit. I enjoyed the fact that he changed it up. Why should the detective win every time anyways?
I open the book and set the bookmark on the bed, losing myself in the words and doing my best to remove Miranda from my thoughts.
There's a hideous gurgle that sounds only when a throat has been slit. It's the only thing really that can make me cringe. I don't often operate this way, but the bitch just wouldn't shut up. I've had criers in my years of killing—screamers too—but this woman, she was something else. Like a fucking banshee, gnashing and clawing as I attempted to put the ball gag on her. I hadn't tied the rope tight enough, that's for sure, but I hadn't planned on the amount of drugs this bitch must've taken beforehand. And the ridiculous strength it gave her.
As she bleeds out in the tub, grasping at her throat with both hands, I can't help but feel sad I couldn't have had more fun with her before it came to this. A surge of anger rushes over me. How could she fuck this up for me with her relentless shrieking? How could she take away my pleasure in causing pain? Impulsively, and without another thought, I lift the hunting knife and thrust it down into her left eye socket. Her remaining eye bulges out as her tied hands come down on her face, wildly batting at nothing in particular. She arches her back, trying her best to pull her head away, but she can't. She is mine for the taking. And I will see to it that she suffers as much as possible before the blood loss inevitably takes her.
I pull the hunting knife out, and the slurping sound it creates oddly reminds me of those bright summer days of my youth when Dad would cut up watermelon for the family. With another quick thrust, I take out her right eye. Her arms freefall to the porcelain tub with a thud, the blood from her neck now running instead of gushing, and I take a few steps back, straightening myself and dropping my head to the side. I set the blade of the knife lightly to my temple, and for a quiet, serene moment, I admire my handiwork in all its filthy, fucked-up glory.