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Andrea C Jones

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Picture Perfect
By Andrea C Jones
Monday, September 06, 2010

Rated "R" by the Author.

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Recent stories by Andrea C Jones
· Julia
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· Game Over
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           >> View all 7


Called to a crime scene, an officer doesn't realize what is about to unfold.

A brown haired teenager sits in an empty room staring in front of her. She is sitting on a worn leather armchair with her fingers tapping on the arms of the chair. She wears her long hair in a ponytail which is tied tightly with one black tie.



The girl faces the small, cheap television which is placed on a TV tray with a DVD player on the tray underneath. The set sits ten feet away from her. Her fingers stop tapping. The girl leans forward slightly as the set crackles to life but then resumes her previous position and stares at the screen, her brown eyes twinkling.



She watches as the party goers wander across the screen and pauses the DVD as the camera is on a little girl sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, her brown hair is in pigtails and she is wearing a frilly dress. The frozen picture is of the girl staring at the camera, but her eyes do not twinkle. Instead they seem dark, cold, the kind you would expect from a cold-blooded killer.



The teenager’s eyes are no longer sparkling, but resemble the emotionless eyes of the little girl. The teenager takes a pen and paper from the wooden floor and pushes play on the DVD. The camera has a direct focus on the girl as she gives a sweet smile and wave as her parents call her name and give her the camera. Five seconds later she stops waving and loses her smile as she looks back at the camera, which is now on her lap. She then gives a smile which, accompanied by the dark eyes, makes her not look like a sweet girl anymore. The girl on the screen puts a finger to her lips; “Shh” and so the teenager does the same, “Shh”.



The girl mouths something to which the teenager writes. When the girl has finished, she nods, the teenager nods and the screen goes blank as the teenager rests her arms once again on the arms of her chair, this time not rattling her fingers.



The teenager stands up before she switches DVD’s and sits back down. This time it is in a different house and the screen is on a blond, blue eyed toddler who is sitting with presents all around her. The teenager’s eyes flick to the timestamp, three years ago. The toddler’s mother sits behind her with a smile on her face; the camera shakes as the toddler puts her hands on it. Her mother picks her up and sits cross-legged on the floor before turning to the camera, smiling and brushing her frizzy blond shoulder length hair back behind her ear; “Come on, Luke, this is your daughter’s first birthday,” the woman turns to her daughter on her lap; “Shouldn’t daddy join us, Olivia?” to which her daughter squeals and claps. The teenager smirks as a grey haired man with murky eyes puts the camera down and kneels beside his wife. The teenager pauses the DVD and looks at the family, and as she does the teenager grips the armchair, digging her nails in so tight they start to bleed.



She leans forward and looks down at the paper resting on her lap and reads it;





I sit here, in the corner, while adults are talking, my hair is in pigtails.



I'm wearing a frilly dress, I'm an innocent child, as sweet as can be.



Aunts squeeze my cheeks; "What a cute little girl"



I stare at the wall, my arms neatly on my lap.



I'm on my best behaviour. I promised my parents.



Strangers compliment me; "She's a very good girl"



I smile sweetly, acting innocent, but I do not play. I only sit here. Lost in my thoughts, not little girl thoughts.



I do not dream of ribbons, but of bloody death.



I stare straight ahead, not bothering to talk.



No-one ever listens to me, they hear what they want.



I'm just a little girl; no-one suspects a thing.



How could this child, who is so good, do anything other, than what she's told?



I'm just a child, a little girl, after all.



I stare at nothing. My eyes are blank.



I'm not really looking. I'm just thinking.



I think these thoughts. I like thinking these things.



What they don't know. Won't hurt them.



I smile sweetly as they look at me.



What they don't know. Won't kill them.



Yet.



The teenager says; “Time to misbehave.”



She stands up, and heads to the front door, where she stops and stares at something which is stuck to the back of the door. She takes the paper and places it on top of the object before she opens the door.



The teenager looks at the frozen picture, focusing on Olivia. She gives a sadistic smile and says, the emotionless look again in her eyes; “Happy Birthday, Olivia.”



She shuts the front door.



On the back of the door is stapled an aging front page of a newspaper. The headline reads;



GIRL ORPHANED IN MASSACRE



To the side of the story is a picture of a brown haired eight year old girl, her brown eyes are twinkling with tears.



She turns the key to lock the door.



The TV switches off.



----------------------





3:30 p.m. -End of the last lesson. She is shy and quiet, but liked, she waves goodbye to her friends, smiling. She is going home from school.



4:20 p.m. -Eva Manig lets herself into her house. She sits at the computer and checks a message board and clicks an image link. Her eyes become enlarged and she gags, holding a hand over her mouth.



She makes it to the kitchen sink and vomits before she washes it away. She is crying as she looks up and falls on to her hands and knees as she tries to walk away from the sink.



She falls on to the floor, curls into a ball and sobs.



Suddenly she gets up in a trance-like state and sits down, staring at the picture again before clicking on to the next one, not blinking or looking away.



She clicks faster and faster as her eyes stare at the screen, not moving, no emotion on her face.



She stops on one picture, blinks, and then resumes clicking.



A couple of minutes go by. She stops clicking as the front door opens and gives a blank stare at the screen.



4:50 p.m. –Her boyfriend, Jack Nibble, comes in to the house and talks to her.



He wonders what's wrong so he goes into the room and suggests something before she angrily slams his head into the table a few times until he is knocked out. She shouts while she does this. She drags the lifeless body to the kitchen, before she returns to the laptop and shuts its lid, putting it on standby.



She goes to the kitchen and does not seem to notice the body as she steps over it, and gets herself a bottle of water.



Bottle on the counter, she leaves the kitchen and returns with a book and a brick. She sits on the floor cross-legged and reads from the medical book. She picks up the brick and hits the man with it, on his head and on his ribs.



She puts down brick next to him, smiles and says,”Cool, a coma.” she has a light, bubbly voice. Eyes still glazed over. Smile fades; there is no emotion on her face or in her voice.



Goes back to laptop and opens it. She clicks back and stares then gets up and leaves the house, locking it.



5:00 p.m. -She smiles as she merrily walks along the street, waving at her small, tight nit community. However, she still has the fixed glance in her eyes.



5:30 p.m. -Goes into a bar. Sits on a stool orders a bottle of Budweiser beer. Scans the room as she drinks. Rex Harit walks over, with his arm round Trisha Holt, who is chewing gum, loudly. He whispers in girl's ear. She smiles and agrees.



5:50 p.m. –They go back to the girl's place. She opens the laptop, clicks back. Grins and shuts it.



5:55 p.m. -Eva follows the pair with her eyes as they walk toward the kitchen. The woman screams, the man draws back. The girl walks in, a sledgehammer in her hands. She tells him not to try to escape or she will kill his friend and track him down. She then ties them to the oven by their hands, allowing them to stand face to face and not taping their mouths.



The woman is crying and asks if she is going to kill them. Eva smiles before laughing and remarking why would she kill them. She places the sledgehammer on the ground. The girl moves the woman so she is not near the man, and sits on the floor instead.



Girl goes to laptop and clicks back.



She blinks.



6:00 p.m. Goes into the kitchen and unties the man from the oven.



She then tuts, three times, and tells him to sit down. He does before he places his hands on his lap.



She picks up her book and flips through a few pages, leaning on the edge of the sink with her back.



She sucks air through her teeth, remarks light-heartedly, “Oh, that looks nasty.” before continuing to flip.



She places the book on the side before walking, again in a trance like state, to the laptop. She clicks back, blinks, and then re-enters the kitchen.



She flips one more page of the book before she places it on the side and tells the man to lie on his stomach, when he has done this she ties his hands together before tying his ankles together.



6:20 p.m. -She picks a knife and cuts his shirt open, exposing his bare back. She feels for something on his back, pressing slightly before she picks up the sledgehammer. With one swift blow she then hammered the weapon on to his spine, he screamed in pain before she hit his spine with it again, loud cracks being heard, and the man became unconscious. His backbone was broken.



The girl puts down her weapon and sits at her laptop. She clicked back. She blinks before she goes back into kitchen. Taking out a plastic bag, she fills it with water.



Laptop, click, blink before back into kitchen.



6:25 p.m. -There are horrific screams coming from below them, the girl smirks and Trisha, now obviously concerned, shouts at her, “What have you do-” but gets interrupted by a new voice screaming. The two voices scream for help, the girl has tears in her eyes as she kneels down to the woman, plastic bag in hand.



6:30 p.m. -Trisha talks rapidly to the girl, trying to stop whatever she is planning, “Look, I can help you; you don't want to do this.”



”I have to do it.”



The girl, when finished talking, stops and listens. The screams have stopped.



She then goes to her fridge and places the bag full of water in the freezer. She grins, looks in the woman's eyes and says, “You're next.”



After a few minutes she checks the laptop. Clicks back. Blinks. Stares.



7:00 p.m. -Taking the icy water out of the freezer she sits Trisha on it, fastening her ankles together and tying her lower back to a chair, to ensure maximum stillness. The woman squirms and the girl places a block of ice in each fist before making Trisha tightly close her hands around the ice. The girl then duck taped the hands together and made sure her hands were firmly shut.



The woman's skimpy short skirt doesn't serve as much protection and so she shudders and shakes.



The girl marvels in what she has done.



The girl leaves, returning to the laptop and clicks. She stares at the picture, a flicker of emotion. She blinks. She clears her throat before dialing a number. She arranges for her best friend to come over.



8:30 p.m. She leads her best friend (July Tore) to basement. Sits July on a chair back to back with someone she can't see, the man (Winston Hollow) who was screaming earlier. He is gagged and July believes that they are performing a variation of Milgram's famous experiment. She pushes the button. Man receives an electric shock and screams in agony through his gag, girl assures her friend she will not be held responsible. Friend nervously laughs as the man thumps on the floor with his feet. Friend pushes button again. The screams and thumping stops. He falls forward, the ropes that tie him to the chair stopping him falling on to the floor.



Girl is shocked, her mouth open and her eyes wide. Friend nervously laughs before she gets up and turns around. Girl shouts at her, “You’ve killed him! You were meant to wait for me to disconnect the breakers!” She is obviously lying, but her friend takes a taser out of her purse, puts the voltage up, holds it to her own temporal lobe, looks at the corpse, says, “I killed him.” and finally pushes the button, sending her convulsing on the floor. She stops convulsing and lies dead.



Girl has tears in her eyes.



8:47 p.m.- Goes back upstairs, sees 'we are watching you' on the wall in the kitchen, the kitchen knife is pointing at the door where she stands, the couple are brutally slaughtered, but her boyfriend is still in his state. The writing is obviously in the couple's blood.



She falters for a second at the sight before her eyes shift around.



Laptop, click, blink.



8:56 p.m. She walks back into the kitchen, glances at the knife, before she props the slightly conscious boyfriend against the wall. Blood is pouring from his head, and as she props him up he moans in pain as his ribs are broken.



Takes an empty needle from his bag. Gets the book, flips. Reads. Injects him with the compressed air.



The air circulates his bloodstream. He starts fitting. The air stops blood flow to the heart. An air embolism. He gasps for breath, his bloodshot eyes staring into her eyes, before he collapses. Dead.



Laptop, clink, blink.



9:00 p.m. -Girl goes back downstairs –light is flickering – swinging. The bodies of her best friend and the other are on the chairs, the light swings over them and the girl gasps, they have rope tied tightly around their necks, pushing their heads together. Another swing of the light showed their hearts had been cut out, an immensely bloody hole. With their necks partly sliced, the far end of the room catches the light –there is the kitchen knife, pointing at the girl, the wall reads, in blood, with a heart either side 'you are doing well'



The girl slowly walks down the steps to her basement.



No-one there but her and the corpses.



She goes to a dark corner of the room, where one bound and gagged female (Sue Tavern) is sitting. Kills by feeding her sleeping pills, removing the gag and putting a plastic bag over her head before sealing the air in with an elastic band, tied tightly around her victim's neck.



9:30 p.m. -She goes back upstairs, and then climbs the stairs to her room.



Into the bathroom. There is a corpse of a teenage boy in the bath. The water is blood red. On the wall is written 'you have finished now'



The kitchen knife is pointing up from the corpse's chest, as if a flag.



She goes back into her bedroom, and falters for a second when she sees, above her bed, 'goodnight and goodbye'



She stares at this as long as she can, but her eyes are droopy and closing.



7:10 a.m. -She wakes up. She screams as she sees the writing above her bed. She sees bloody footprints and follows them, taking her into the bathroom. She vomits at the smell and sight. She calls the police, describes what she sees. Hangs up.



There is more shock as she goes downstairs –following the bloody footprints.



She sees the footprints lead back to her bed. She looks at her feet, they are covered in blood.



----------------------





“Is this the official report?”



“No, she was never caught. By the time the police got there, she was long gone. That's how everyone put it together, you need a report, sir.”



“She just vanished?”



“Exactly. She was classed as a multiple personality, delusional and paranoid psychopath. The laptop was never found, but we suspect it was in her head. Her other personality was stalking her, causing her to believe that someone was going to kill her if she didn't do what they wanted her to – what it showed in the pictures. Dennis will fill you in on the rest.”



Homicide Officer Luke Webster was talking to Police Officer Shawn Holdings. Holdings, the first to respond to the call, was answering any and all questions Webster had for him.



Webster, a clever and charming man in his early 30's, ran a hand through his short hair and stared at Holdings with his sharp grey eyes. He spoke with a polite, almost pleasant tone which was rare in his line of work occupied his voice, “Ok, thanks, Shawn.”



The officer departed.



Webster glanced over to where Forensic and Medical Expert Dr. Dennis stood. Webster and Dennis were good friends. Dennis noted every detail about the crime scene and was one of the best in his field. Dennis had a tendency to talk in broken sentences, jumping from one thought to the next, but when it was all put together it was everything that was required, and more, in explicit detail.



Luke shook his friend's hand, smiling as he greeted him, “Why are we here today, Dennis? Have we solved an old case?”



Dennis looked his friend in the eyes, which made Webster lose his smile, before he talked, “Look at this, came through yesterday.”



Dennis handed the investigator a common brown envelope. Webster opened it, and first took out a stack of stapled together pages. They were written on a computer.



----------------------





'It's like a sport, killing. No. It is a sport.



The rush I get as they stare at me with the newly discovered realization that they're about to die. That I'm not going to loosen my grip or save them.



What a rush that is.



The first time was Jamie. Poor, sweet Jamie. I couldn't help but smirk sadistically as he lay there dying and reached his hand to me, as if I was going to help him.



The rush, the pure adrenaline I received from it. There's nothing like it.



I stood over him and as the poison flowed through his veins, the incredible rush flowed through mine.



I could feel it, the rush in my veins. I kneelt down next to him and moved my hand over his nose. As I was about to suffocate him, I realized the rush would increase if I let him gasp for air.



I pecked his lips before standing. With one last exasperated breath he was dead.



There was so much rush that I took my wrist and dug my nails into it, sucking air through my teeth. The rush. I adored and craved it. I would need to get more.



After Jamie's murder, when the initial buzz had worn off, I dug my nails deeper into my wrist, sliding down the wall to a sit and looking to the ceiling, my eyes wide while I let out a silent scream.



I had not planned to murder anymore people. I had, however, enjoyed the feeling. The rush that I craved evolved into addiction. Oh, that sweet rush.



I needed to feel it again.



I walked to the location.



Christian, Christian, Christian.



My mind repeated his name again and again, each in rapid succession, each louder than the last.



It was a reminder of that sweet rush I would feel. As if teasing me.



I knocked and heard him come to the door.



Christian.



He opened the door. As I made eye contact with my victim, one last teaser hissed his name, as if a snake.



Christian.



I resisted smirking.



I nodded to him and he let me in.



The first few sedated rushes informed me of their presence before abandoning me.



Not for long.



Christian closed the door and following me, commented on my hair in a neat ponytail, then sat on the couch next to me.



That's when I began.



As with Jamie, I had phoned Christian earlier.



Now, Christian leant towards me, before the gun pressed against his head.



I cocked the gun.



He tried to grab my wrist, but it was useless. I was much stronger than the last time we had met.



I couldn't shoot him in the head, it would be too quick, and I wanted him to suffer.



I pushed him off the couch with my free hand and took aim with my Jericho 941 9mm handgun, my hand gripping the handle with a finger laid on the trigger. I had set my eye level with the sight. He had his back to me.



This gun is hard to fire for most shooters. Not for me.



Of course, this handgun was renamed, but I prefer the Jericho name. It makes it seem, somewhat. Biblical. Christian.



I smirked as I thought about this. I squeezed the trigger.



He fell, his back hitting the floor.



I had shot him in a certain place of his spine which would make him fall backwards. I held my gun upright and reloaded, my smile fading as I walked towards him.



I stood over him, a leg either side of his hips.



He looked fearfully up at me.



I leant down and pecked his lips. Standing upright, I expertly kicked his legs apart.



“B-Bitch,” Christian managed to say.



I smirked, the rush bubbling, waiting for its cue to erupt into its full-fledged brilliance.



I pointed my gun at his groin and bided my time, enjoying the moment.



After a few seconds, I shot.



I had left the location where my second victim lay dead.



I already had planned out the next murder.



I took out my phone and dialed.



Ring. Ring. Ring.



After the third ring he answered, “Hello?”



“Hello, Alistair.”



I faked my nicest voice and repeated, as I had with my first two victims, “We should meet.”



I paused, swallowing a piece of vomit, before continuing, “I need some more of your love.”



It was simplistic and brilliant, they couldn't refuse and they would have their guard down.



Alistair did a dirty laugh, like the others had. The kind you expect from an old man. Then he spoke, “I knew you would, sooner or later. Come by right now...You remember where I live?”



I smirked, ”Oh yes, I remember.” My smirk grew into a grin,”I'll be around in an hour.”



With that, I hung up.



I must admit, this third murder took longer than the other two to perfect.



However, with all three murders, every second would be worth its weight in gold.



As I made my way to Alistair's. I, in my mind, rehearsed the last words he'd hear.



The name repeated in my head, as it had done with Christian.



Alistair, Alistair, Alistair, Alistair.



I stood just a few houses from his house.



I looked in a windowed reflection of myself, as I tied my hair in its neat ponytail once again.



Alistair.



The teasers were hissing once again.



I checked myself in the mirror to make sure I didn't look suspicious.



I smirked. Perfect for the part.



He opened the door. I walked inside.



I observed the room we walked through, he had the curtains shut in all the rooms. I had noticed this before entering his house. He led me into the bedroom, I sarcastically thought to myself, “How romantic,” as I looked to him in disgust, yet on the outside I was smiling, as he was, misinterpreting my smile.



As I was about to enter the bedroom. I took a moment, standing in the doorway. A single second thought flashed through my mind before Alistair's putrid breath on my neck brought me back to my senses.



He turned to face the bed. I rapidly grasped hold of the cheap champagne bottle, raising my arm.



I could feel a surge of rush as the glass made contact, smashing over his head.



He fell on to the floor, unconscious.



I dropped the remainder of the bottle and held my hand vertically as I moved it to my eyes, as if amazed by it.



I bent my fingers and thumb, to check no tendons had ripped. My fingers and thumb all bent normally.



The piece of glass which was sticking through the middle of my left hand, covered in my blood, was, at my best guess, 8cm long and 3cm wide. I turned my hand over again and again, my eyes glazed over as I stared at it before putting my right index finger and thumb either side of the edge of glass closest to my palm.



Pulling incredibly slowly I watched the glass slide through my hand, scraping at my flesh as if trying to grasp on to it.



You might wonder why I didn't show pain or faint from loss of blood. I will tell you why. I don't feel anything anymore.



Until the rush.



Looking at the hole in my hand spewing blood I decided I had to cover it up. It wasn't that it made me feel uncomfortable. It wasn't because I would faint.



It was because it would be an annoyance. I had much to do.



I placed the piece of glass from my hand on to the counter, the pointed edge lying off it. I would make use of it later.



I then took one of Alistair's shirts and ripped at it, tearing off a perfectly sized piece of cloth for my need.



I laid the cloth on to the kitchen side and then lay my hand on top of it. Using my teeth and my right hand I tightly bound the wound after washing blood off of my hand.



I grabbed the shirt as I went back into the bedroom, dropping it on to the floor.



Dragging the unconscious Alistair by the armpits, I placed him on the bed on his back.



I then ripped some more of the shirt, grabbed the ping pong ball from my bag and walked to his head.



Having opened his mouth I inserted the ping pong ball before closing it. I then used the second piece of cloth as some assurance that he wouldn't spit the ball out, wrapping it tightly around his head then tying it with a knot. I would remove the gag later.



Taking some rope from my bag, I tied each of his limbs to the corresponding bedpost tightly.



I then took the pre-prepared noose and slipped it around his neck, tying the end of the rope to the middle of his headboard. I didn't tighten the noose as tightly as an executioner might, as I made sure his head could lie neatly on the pillow.



I waited, leaning casually against a wall, my legs crossed.



Finally, after a couple of minutes, I started to hear some muffled groans.



He was awake.



He was fully conscious after about a minute. I walked to the end of the bed, glaring down at him.



I spoke, “For my first victim, Jamie, I chose a poison which would make him suffer, so I could watch him gasp for air, reaching his hand to me to help him, save him.



But he had condemned me. Therefore, so did I to him.



Next, there was Christian.”



Here I paused, looking into his tearful, dilated eyes.



I grinned my grin before continuing, “Who ever knew a Jericho 941 9mm handgun could be such fun?



I shot him in the groin before watching him in pain. Finally, after a few minutes, I put him out of his misery.”



I left the room for a second and returned with five Polaroid’s and a camera. I placed the camera on the bedside table. My tone turned angry as I straddled him and pushed the Polaroid's close enough for him to see, my voice serving as a narration to the images.



I held up the first, which depicted a normal photograph of my first victim. I calmly said, “Jamie Tether, 18. Looks happy doesn't he?”



I then held up the second as a sadistic grin grew on my face, this showed Jamie moments before his death, curled up and reaching his hand to me, writhing in pain.



I shouted, inches away from his face, almost spitting with rage, “How about now?! He doesn't look too happy now, does he?”



I sat back up on my legs as I threw the two pictures aside before leaning into my intimidating pose once again. Now I held up the normal photo of my second victim, again speaking calmly, “Christian Waters, 17. A nice young boy, wouldn't you think?”



Once again I held up a second shot to him. Christian was about to get shot in the head at this point. The photograph showed the mess I had made of his genitals. The camera was positioned so it would be looking down the length of my gun, to Christian's terrified, scrunched face, obviously in pain.



I looked at my wrist without a watch and casually said, “That picture was taken exactly one hour, thirty-seven minutes and 50 seconds ago.



I killed him on the minute.”



Finally, my grin grew into a sadistic smirk as I dropped the two Christian shots, held up the last and said with no emotion to be found in my voice, “Alistair Cambell, 20.”



I laid that picture so he would be able to see it. I put my head on his pillow, my face facing his, which was facing the ceiling. I stroked his cheek with the back of my hand and whispered into his ear, “So, how am I going to kill you, Alistair?”



I got off of him, leaving his picture where he could see it.



I got a small bottle from my bag. I placed it on to the bedside table before retrieving my bloodied piece of glass from the counter, placing it beside the bottle.



I then pulled down the piece of shirt gag and removed the ping pong ball from inside his mouth, placing it on the bed in the space between his ankles. “Tell me. Did it make you feel powerful? Like men?”



When he didn't answer me I shouted a single word, “Well?”



Finally, he played directly as I anticipated he would, speaking through quivering lips. “Y-You're a monster!”



As he finished, I grabbed his tongue and held it steady, reaching for the piece of glass.



In a saw like motion, with one quick second I had cut his tongue off and rapidly reinserted the ping pong ball, removing the severed tongue.



I pulled his gag back up as he let out frantic screams. I retorted, “How does it feel for your screams to fall on deaf ears?”



The rush was flowing rapidly through my veins by now, fuelling me.



I picked up the bottle and shook it slightly, the liquid being heard swishing inside. His eyes were fixated on the bottle. I spoke again, noticing where his eyes lay, “An unknown substance.”



I pulled out the naso-gastric tube I had brought, telling the shop assistant that it was for a mock force-feeding session, to entertain.



After all, Jamie, Christian and Alistair had hidden the true nature of my visit.



I will not describe the whole process in as much detail as I have described the rest.



I wouldn't want to make you nauseous or ill, after all.



The feeding pipe was thick, thicker than his nostril, and it would not go in. Blood came gushing out of his nose and tears ran down his cheeks, but I kept pushing until the cartilages cracked.



He had seemed to stop breathing, yet I could tell he was still alive by the tears in his eyes. He wheezed like a drowning man.



I kept shoving the pipe farther and farther down and when it reached his stomach he resumed breathing.



I then poured the liquid through a funnel into the pipe.



I kept the tube in for another half-hour so that the liquid was absorbed by his stomach and could not be vomited back, and then I began to pull the pipe out bit by bit. He kept crying, he must have been in extreme pain.



This is when I took my camera out.



I spoke over his frantic, muffled cries, “That substance is Methamphetamine. Known as Meth or Ice.



This is what you gave to me, remember?”



I looked over to him as I put my camera gently down on to the table, “By the same, force-feeding, method.”



He was drifting in and out of consciousness by now, his head to one side and his partially open eyes fixed on me, as if begging me to kill him then and there. But then he suddenly received a boost of energy, becoming fully conscious.



I took my piece of glass and cut him loose. I cut the ropes around his ankles first before I cut the ones stretching his arms.



When he was loose I stood in the doorway, just staring at him.



He seemed astounded by his freedom, shaking off the ropes as he stared angrily at me.



He went to sit up before the noose jerked him back on the bed. I smirked at this.



Removing the noose, he lunged for me. I didn't move.



He roughly grabbed me and picked up my piece of glass, holding it against my neck.



Alistair nodded his head towards the bed. I got on it.



He fiddled with his trousers, trying to get them off. I watched him do this.



The ironic thing about Meth is that although it causes the user to crave instant sexual satisfaction, it also causes erectile dysfunction in male users.



What Alistair didn't realize was that I had added minuscule pieces of glass with the liquid, which had been absorbed by his stomach along with the liquid.



I didn't bother to resist. In a few minutes it wouldn't matter.



I got off the bed as Alistair clutched at his stomach, trying to take off the gag, which, in his panic, he could not do.



I leant in the doorway and looked at him, letting out a sigh.



I grabbed my camera as he squirmed on the bed, blood coming out of his mouth and his eyes badly bloodshot.



I took the picture and waved the Polaroid in the air, waiting for it to dry.



Alistair collapsed on the bed, taking his final breaths.



I spoke as soon as his eyes had settled angrily on me.



The rehearsed words.



“I laid there, 343 days ago.



Jamie, Christian and yourself, Alistair. You each took me to your house, 343 days ago.



And you raped me.



On that day, you each took three things from me.”



I paused, leaning against a wall.



I suddenly looked back at him, disappointingly. I then continued, “As I lay there I wrote, inside my head, how to extract my revenge.



I had, then, decided to only kill one of you. Jamie.



But then, you see, I felt the sweet rush of revenge.



So I devised ironic murders for each of you that were set up in exactly the same way, anticipating your every move.



You had all made me dead on the inside, so for my first, and then only expected, murder, Jamie, I chose a poison which would make him suffer, So I could watch him gasp for air, reaching his hand to me to help him, save him.



Next there was Christian, I suffered outside as well as inside, and you know what happened to him.”



My free hand found the knot of the noose and replaced it around his neck. I pulled it fairly tightly, making his eyes light up, as I said, “Maybe I will strangle you. Or maybe I will hang you.”



I let go of the noose.



“But that wouldn't be very ironic, would it?”



Once again I stroked his cheek as I whispered in his ear, “You had torn me up inside.”



I reached for my piece of glass, grabbing his hair, making him look at me, “You stabbed my heart, making me cold, emotionless and dead inside,”



I raised the glass so he could clearly see it, grasping it in my hand, “So must I to you.”



I tightened the noose, so that the knot was pressing against the back of his neck.



I sat, with my legs crossed, on the armchair in the corner of his bedroom, easily being able to watch him squirm on the bed.



I was writing on the back of something as I sat there, not looking at him.



After a few minutes of this, he became frantic. I glanced at him and, whilst grinning slightly, I slowly walked over to him, pulling the bloodied gag down, removing the, now blood red, ping pong ball and placing it, as before, in-between his ankles.



I pecked his lips. When I pulled away, inches from his mouth, I spoke, “So must I to you.”



I raised my arm, never looking from his eyes and moving slightly back from his face, before speaking again, “Goodbye, Alistair.”



I plunged the glass forcefully into his heart. I watched his eyes light up and the blood pour out of his mouth as he rapidly sat up, not realizing I had tightened the noose.



Snap.



I sighed, gathering my camera and the Polaroid's, placing them into my bag. I then took his house keys from its hook and closed the door, locking it behind me.



After letting myself into my own house, a few hours later, I checked the clock.



4pm. Good.



I sat cross legged on my bed, placing my bag beside me before reaching over on to my bedside table, and then I received the photographs from my bag. My pencil was always on that table.



I turned the photographs over and wrote on their backs. I then placed the photographs into the brown envelope and sealed it tightly.



Now, all that's left is the conclusion.



Not an hour ago did I hand to your local department this account, which they will not read until tonight, as you will brush it off as some non-important drivel. I have written on the back of the photographs the addresses where you will find the bodies, as well as where you can obtain the corresponding keys to get into each house.



There are seven photographs in the envelope that I have just sealed. I will post it, Officer, to you within the half hour. It will arrive tomorrow morning.



The murder 'weapons', if you will, I have left with the corresponding victims.



The seventh photograph is of me, a year ago.



I shall be dead when you read this.



”Gina Mave, aged twenty-two.”



So long, Officer Webster.'



----------------------





Dennis let his friend take a few moments, Webster's eyes were fixed on the last two words, he mumbled, “Officer Webster...



Is it the same girl?”



“We're a block away from the first victim, Jamie Tether.”



Webster's face was drained of color and pale white, and as they walked to the scene he looked through the photo's which were placed into the envelope. Seven pictures. He stared at the photo of Gina, her brown hair in a pony tail, her eyes shimmering, and her smile full of white teeth. She reminded him of his daughter, who was barely 2 years old. Webster shook his head, his emotions were clouding his thoughts. “This rush she keeps talking about...her other personality being subdued?”



“You'll have to ask Fran, she has been working all morning on this kid.”



“Oh, great.”



“Give her as good as you get, Luke.”



Webster looked up, they were at the first crime scene.



Dennis went to examine the scene, leaving Webster to step under the police tape and enter the room himself. He looked around, simplistic apartment, three rooms, not much to it. He saw Jamie, he was in the centre of the sitting room, the biggest room in the flat, and was curled up in a slightly fetal position, his arm outstretched on the floor pointing to where his murderer was once standing, and now where his investigator stood. As he entered, he could see that Jamie has blood on his feet.



“So, you want a psych profile right? Yeah can't read it on the report can you, Webster, got to have it right away. Boss steps on the crime-scene, no matter how hard it is to crack, he wants all the information now, right, Webster?”



“Nice to see you too, Francesca.”



“It's Fran, honey, how many times...yeah you have one really twisted girl here Webster.” She looks into his eyes with her green eyes, she talks slower.”What do you want to know first?”



“Is it the same girl as in the Manig case?”



“Judging purely on the evidence we have and what we know from both cases, I'd say yes...the Manig girl thought she saw images, which made her do things, and this girl...Gina, well she likes to take pictures. Also, the Manig girl was suspected to be between the age of sixteen and nineteen, and this Gina is Twenty-Four. The Manig case, as you well know, was five years ago, which would make her nineteen for the Manig case. Gina Mave moved here when she was nineteen.”



“This rush...the other personality beginning to stir again?”



“Yeah, being dormant for five years...it either died off or mixed into Gina's conscious personality. My guess is the latter.”



“You have anything else for me?”



“Gina Mave is Eva Manig backwards.”



Webster hesitates before he speaks, “Thanks Fran, nice work.”



At that moment, Dennis came up to the two, “We have samples on their way back to the lab.”



Fran spoke, “Gina Mave is Eva Manig backwards.”



“Ah.”



Fran walked away, and Webster spoke to Dennis, “Got anything yet?”



“The poison she used is nasty stuff called Botulinum. You know it as Botox. I heard about someone getting infected from an old can of tuna. I haven't eaten canned tuna since. Botulinum is the deadliest poison known to man. When contracted, the nervous system completely shuts down and you die in excruciating pain. One of the ways you can tell this is from the bruising on the left side of his neck, this is caused by the injection, not the toxin itself.”



“Where did she get it?”



“I can only guess at Black Market, although it wouldn't be easy and it wouldn't come cheap to get the lethal dose.”



“You have what you need?”



“Yeah, you?”



“Yeah, let's go see Christian.”



As they drove to the next house, Webster asked, “The report of the Manig case... seems detailed.”



“Here.”



Dennis reached in his pocket and took out a greeting card envelope, it was addressed to Dennis. Webster opened it -- there was a DVD and a tape inside. The envelope was dated the 15th, two days ago. When they arrived at the next house, before he had looked at Christian, as soon as he was able to, Webster played the DVD.



The first thing to suddenly appear on the screen was a man -- Jack Nibble -- walking through a hall. He went into a room. A few minutes later, a young girl was dragging the man into the next room. There is a trail of blood. Camera switches to the kitchen; the girl hits the man with a brick, once on his head and once on his ribs. The girl goes back and forth a few times between the rooms before she leaves the house.



Webster pauses the DVD and gets the Manig report. He then puts the tape in a tape player and pushes play. There is a scream. He pauses tape. He looks through the case report and realizes it is when the couple first entered the kitchen, he fasts forward to this point on the DVD, which is an hour later. The couple enters. He pauses the DVD as the woman is screaming. He pushes play on both the DVD and the tape. They match up. He watches, listens and reads the events. There are cameras everywhere she goes except the room of the laptop.



A couple of times, however, the script misses out some of her actions. After her best friend kills herself, as she is about to go up the stairs, she collapses before picking herself up, she walks to the kitchen, picks up the kitchen knife, walks into the hall, and stops.



She walks up to the camera and looks at it. Webster pauses the tape and DVD, “Dennis, what's the return address -- where was it sent from?”



“Eva Manig's house.”



Webster looks at the frozen picture, into her eyes. They somehow seem colder than before.



He pushes play.



The girl stares right at the camera and says, in a sickening way -- not in the same light and bubbly voice as before, “Do you see me?”



An evil grin adorns her face. She loses this grin, tilts her head slightly and says, softer this time, “Can you see me?”



She straightens her head and says, in a way which makes Webster lean back quickly, “I can see you, Officer Webster.”



She walks into the kitchen, cuts the couple up viciously and writes.”We Are Watching You” on the wall in their blood. She gets two identical knives, soaks them in blood and leaves one pointing at the kitchen door. She then goes upstairs, to a gagged teenage boy in the bathroom. She grins at the camera before she stabs him again and again. The water turns red. She writes,”You Are Finished Now” on the wall in blood, and then sticks the knife into his chest like a flag. She then takes the last knife to the basement, and putting tight rubber gloves on, she picks the body of the best friend up, and puts her on the chair. She ties the necks together, and one by one stabs their hearts and rips them out violently. Placing a heart either side of the room against the same wall, she writes, in their blood. “You are doing well.”



Finally, she places the bloody knife so it is facing the entrance and hits the light so it swings. She goes back upstairs into the hall, she collapses again before picking herself up.



Webster watches as the rest of the events unfold, as documented, except one. In the middle of the night, the girl sits bolt upright, says in the cold voice, “I will come back.”



Gives the camera a sickening grin and collapses back on to her pillow, asleep.



The DVD finishes when she notices blood on her feet, the tape makes a whirring noise as it rewinds.



Dennis comes up to him, they walked into the room and saw Christian, sprawled on the floor. Dennis spoke, “Luke, we've got three shots, one in the spine, one in the groin and one in the head. The limb of the shot groin is in an external rotation. His hip was shattered. Lots of blood. We have three entry wounds -- slightly bigger than bullet diameter. Angles suggest, spine was first shot, groin would be next, psych say she wanted them to suffer, went through the bone, exit wounds same size as entry. Casing and wounds suggest handgun. Blood dried in half an hour, so we can say that's when he died, give or take a few minutes for it to clot.”



“I wonder if she really was raped or if that was just an excuse in order to justify this... anything else?”



“Yeah. The handgun was pointing at the door.”



“Ok, thanks. Let's go see Alistair.”



On the drive to Alistair's house, Webster was lost in his thoughts. Dennis broke the silence, “What do you think she saw when she was seventeen? I wonder what triggered her psychosis, even Fran is wondering that.”



“Whatever it was,” Webster looks at the picture of his daughter in his wallet. As they pulled to a stop outside the house he puts his wallet away and then says, “I hope it's gone now.”



They walk to his house –all the curtains are shut, as Gina's story said, ' ...he had the curtains shut in all the rooms. I had noticed this before entering his house. He led me into the bedroom...'



They were entering the bedroom now –flies were buzzing around, and the dried blood reached the door.



Alistair lay on the bed, his arms lay dangling off, his frozen eyes staring up in horror, the noose causing rope burns on his neck. The ping pong ball was set in the space in-between his ankles, his mouth lay open with blood circled around it. His shirt, bed, floor and trousers were covered in blood. Webster glanced to the arm chair in the corner of the room, where she had sat, before returning his stare to the corpse.



There was a pool of blood in his mouth.



The piece of glass was stuck directly into his heart, and stuck on the top of the glass was the severed tongue.



Dennis, examining the snapped spine, spoke, “Snapped spine at the point of the noose's knot. Cause of death would be bled to death if she didn't use the noose. He'll have some internal bleeding, if what she writes about the force-feeding mixture is true , which so far it is. Stabbed in center of heart, doesn't make more mess than needed. Finally, glossectomy, the removal of the tongue.”



Webster motions to the glass, speaking slower than normal as he is deep in thought, “The Manig case...That teenage boy in the bathroom, the knife was like a flagpole without a flag...The way the tongue is placed on the glass in this victim's heart...looks like the flag is up..”



“She has defined her trademarks.”



Webster suddenly walked out of the house and got in his car, he turned around in the drive before he stopped. Dennis came up to the window, “Where are you going?”



Webster revved his car, “I'm going to go meet Gina.”



Dennis let go of the window as Webster revved his car once more before leaving the scene. All the way to the next address his eyes kept shifting to the picture of the girl on his dashboard.



As he slowly pulled into the drive of her house, he saw some police officers outside, their hands on their knees, bent over. They were vomiting.



He pulled the car into park and took his keys out, grabbing the picture as he left the car. As soon as he had closed the car door, his mobile phone rang. He looked at it, the number showed as unknown. He hesitated before answering it, “Hello?”



”Is this Officer Luke Webster, Homicide?”



“Yes.”



“You're coming for me, Can you see me?”



Webster's eyes shift around, “Where are you?”



“I can see you, Officer Webster.”



“Who is this?”



“I can see you, daddy.”



“Who is this?”



“Look in the house.”



“Which house?”



“The house you are about to enter, the one with the dead girl. I'm dead now, but in pictures I am alive, in the picture you have I am happy. Why do I do bad things?”



“How can you be dead?”



“Look in the house, daddy. I can see you. Your daughter, Olivia. Look in the house.



The officer is scared of me; the officer is scared of me!”



The voice turned into the dark one he had heard on the tape, “Just like he should be. Your daughter, don't you want to save her?”



The voice had a hint of anger this time, “Look in the house, Officer Webster, The house!”



The line went silent.



Webster ran into the house, with his phone to his ear. He quickly ran out and vomited -the smell before he had gotten to the body enough to force him out.



A sickening laugh came from the phone, and then the line went dead.



Webster looked at his phone.



It was switched off.



His mind was playing tricks on him.



Webster threw his phone into his car before he slowly walked into the house. He held his shirt over his nose and mouth as he entered.



There was nothing in the first room but black, twisting stairs and an old tv set, dvd player and armchair. The walls were painted black but there was a soft, white carpet spanning the room. The room must have taken up the whole downstairs.



He told the officers he would go in alone and told them to wait in this massive, empty room.



Halfway up the stairs, a smell which made him gag hit him and he was plunged into natural only light. Further up the stairs, further, the second floor must have been on the third floor, as the stairs were very long and it took him around two minutes to reach the top. There was a small passageway, a wall leading from the stairs to the corner of the room, but with the end of the wall falling short of the main wall it was trying to reach. Black carpet, white walls.



Webster came to the end of the passageway, and then he put his back against the wall and side-stepped in order to exit it. He got out his torch and switched it on.



Webster heard Dennis enter behind him, and waited until he was reunited with his friend. This was the only room on the second floor, again spanning the entire length of the upstairs. There was a bed at the other end with a figure on top of it.



Dennis remarked, “This is going to be messy.”



They walked to the body. Flies were buzzing around her. Dennis went in for a closer look first, “Matches the photo, this is definitely Gina. We have...an injection into her neck, a subcutaneous injection. Looks to be...Organophosphate poisoning. She must have injected this a few weeks ago in order for it to take effect. Effects are often called SLUDGEM - Salivation, Lacrimation -crying, Urination, Defecation, Gastrointestinal motility, Emesis -vomiting and Miosis –constriction of the pupil. I can see the salvation, crying and Emesis...Smell the Urination and Defecation.”



Dennis checked her eyes, carefully. “Only symptom missing is the Gastrointestinal motility...Wait...there...movement?”



“What?” Webster paused as he came up to him and stood on the opposite side of the bed to his friend, “She is still alive?”



“No, my mistake. Look at what this is, in her right hand.”



Dennis forced the small bottle out of her hand, “Cellcept.”



“What is it for?”



“It's a drug given to organ transplant patients in order to help their body accept the organ. Because the immune system helps fight things like foreign organs, anti-rejection drugs lower the immune system.”



A light came on, making the room and all its contents clearer. Webster switched off and put away the torch.



Dennis looked at her chest and then he quickly looked away, turning white.



Webster looked, noticing his friend’s discomfort. There were hundreds of ants eating her. They had made the whole of her organs exposed. A few of them were eating her lungs.



Dennis spoke, “I've seen these before, Army Ants, one of the deadliest if not the deadliest insects. Their bite is acid like, and can melt any flesh. A whole nest can eat a whole cow in a few hours.”



“If these ants can eat a cow in a few hours, why are they still eating her?.”



“My guess is she drank some eggs before she died, or put eggs on her stomach. Since she wasn't sure how long the Organophosphate would take to kill her, takes 2-3 weeks, so she had these little guys as a backup plan, they hatch within one or two days. But see there, that's a queen, just in case the babies didn't do the job in time.”



Webster turned around, his back to the bed. He stopped as he looked at the sight to the side of him. He quickly turned his head to his friend, “Dennis.”



They both looked at the wall opposite where she lay. There, written on the wall, in blood, were the words,



‘This Was The Picture.”





A few minutes later, the photographer took the picture while the body had not been tampered with, before the official teams were let in. Dennis and Webster were still there and as the photographer departed, she asked Dennis if she could take two copies, to which he agreed. As she left after taking the extra copy, Webster followed her downstairs for some fresh air and looked at her as she walked away.



Before she got into her car, Webster noticed her camera.



Polaroid.



She and Webster locked eyes; Webster saw her long blond hair in a ponytail and her sparkling blue eyes. They smiled at each other.



She put the camera into her car.



Turning the key in her engine, Webster came up to her car, smiled at her and said, “You didn't get sick, seeing that?”



She sounded fairly annoyed as she talked, whether it was because of him or her car failing to start Webster didn't know, “I don't think about it.”



“Have you been doing this long,” He paused, “Taking pictures?”



“Tell you what, officer.”



She reached into the glove compartment and took out a copy of the picture, “You can have this copy.”



Webster smiled at her before letting her be on her way, watching her as she drove off. Before she did, however, she gave him another sweet smile. He smiled back.



Webster shifted before he returned to the house as he heard the car’s roar vanishing.



He looked on the back of the photo, it read,



'I Am Back Again.'



Webster stands stunned, before he looks slightly under the text where a key is. Webster rips this key off and reads the small address under it. He realizes it’s Eva Manig’s address and so heads off without saying a word to anyone. By the time he had arrived 10 minutes later, he had to stop and think if he wanted to call for backup. He did not.



He sees something nailed on the front of the door.



It’s the front page of an old newspaper. The headline reads;



GIRL ORPHANED IN MASSACRE



Webster’s pupils widen.



To the side of the story is a picture of a brown haired eight year old girl, her brown eyes are twinkling with tears and a police officer holding her hand, but that is all you can see of the officer.



Webster reads the story;



An awful massacre occurred at the Foster mansion where it seems that a man killed his wife as she slept before stabbing eight friends who were sleeping over after their party and then shot himself. Their eight year old daughter, Nancy, witnessed the whole ordeal. She told police that she was pleading with her father to stop.



Noticing the distressed girl wandering around her front lawn late Tuesday night and the first on the scene was the newly promoted Chief Inspector Luke Webster.




Webster stared at the article for a few second before he blinked.



He hears a noise behind him,



"Shh"



Then it all went black.




 


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The Grass Tattoo by Catriona King

The second in the DCI Craig Thriller series.Craig and his team discover a body at Stormont, the seat of Northern Ireland's Government. But the death has nothing to do with politics..  
BookAds by Silver, Gold and Platinum Members

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