A honey blonde lock of hair can be as intoxicating as a bottle of gin. Back in high school, when I was a senior, I sat behind her in math class. With attention deficit disorder and dyslexia, you can imagine how difficult this class must have been for me. In any case, the numbers meant nothing to me. Every time I looked at the blackboard, my head spun. All the numbers and symbols made me sick, so I took to ignoring them. Of course, my teacher, Mr. Marshall, didn't exactly approve of this, but it wasn't like I cared what he thought, then. Because of his class, I almost failed my senior year. If it weren't for his perverted, touchy hands and his passion for young boys that allowed us to make a deal, I'd probably still be in high school today.
Anyway, since the blackboard was painful to look at, I took to staring at the back of her neck. She sat at an angle, so I could see the way her gentle curls twirled and fell against her shoulders. The longer I stared at them, the more her locks of honey blond hair intoxicated me. Eventually, I was able to pick up her scent in a crowd. I knew without turning around when she walked into a room.
I was the awkward Irish kid who got into fights. I guess some of the girls liked me because of my reputation for being bad, but most of them steered clear of me, since I wasn't interested in them. It wasn't that I was unattractive; it was just that I didn't encourage them. In fact, I downright ignored most of the girls in my class. But her... My first love... Now, she was a girl to get stuck on.
Quiet, beautiful... Her eyes were soft, soft brown, like the feather of some beautiful night owl. She looked hesitant at first, but she agreed to let me take her out one friday night. The moon was full, like some delicious ripe fruit, and when I pulled my Chevy over on the side of the road and wrapped my arm around her shoulder, she melted into me like ice being absorbed into a drink. I don't think she'd ever been touched by a guy before.
The moon lit up her honey locks as she fell into my chest. It was like she wanted me to take advantage of her. When I pulled out my military-issued army knife and pressed it to her neck, she screamed like she hadn't seen it coming. With one week left before graduation, it wasn't like they'd have a whole year to miss her. She screamed louder when I pushed up the hem of her skirt, my calloused hands sliding roughly up her thighs.
She's the only girl I ever really loved. She's the only victim whose name I knew or remember. At night, sometimes, I can still feel her warm, soft blood pouring over every inch of me. It was everywhere. In my mouth, in my eyes, on my clothes, on my thighs. She poured out everything all over me, and it was the most intense sensation I've ever felt. When I buried her in a field way out on the edge of town, I left white roses on the spot and kissed the grave.