Such enigmatic pleasure rushed through the doctor. His eyes focused intently on hers through the darkened glass, he wouldn't tear his glance now. He was too absorbed in the moment, caught in a silent frenzy as she reached up pleadingly, choking, the color leaving her. She was now but an observation, a test subject on the verge of a prognosis. He felt the corners of his mouth perking up, a rare event. She uttered something unintelligible and firmly grasped his wrist before finally gargling in her own blood, eyes rolling back into death. Such beauty, he thought. The only time they would ever look beautiful. As embarrassing as it was he had certain urges that cost him his medical reputation. Though, he usually ignored such truths in any other setting. Repression and denial was the key. He had always appeared calm, collected and factual to the public. His mannerisms within self-control were immaculate. Though, he knew about the whispers that traveled and the stories about the deadly doctor whom killed women mercilessly. It had been quite a blow to his business but he couldn't resist. How delicious these moments were, the final intimate moments with a struggling, pleading girl. The terror, the emotion in her eyes, he seethed and fed off it. It was in those last moments, when the world shrank and it was only the two of them, the victim and killer, that he could begin to feel satisfied. When his poisons would sweep in and their senses would fail, he could recreate the surge he hungered for. That same repetition, over and over.
They sickened him. Distasteful women, plaguing the streets with their filth and disease as society accepted them with open arms. They were everywhere. With every smile, every flirtatious giggle and cooing of a man, he felt it. Beneath the exterior, beneath the mask, the killer within. Their complex and the idealism within them, easy pleasure infuriated him. That's what they did. They did not work for anything nor hold any dignity or morals. Simple and easy carbon copies just like her. He was ill, he knew that. Somehow, his humors had been constantly imbalanced since then and they had never properly realigned. Theoretically, in a fit of irrational emotion, one would supposedly recover from that, but. With every echo, every voice and every sight of those… women, he felt it creep up on his mind. His logic and curious nature kept composure, only that. His dedication to his job, his passion for poisons. They had eventually developed into test subjects as well as victims. He did what they deserved while allowing him to experiment, the perfect mixture though sometimes he wondered if he should indulge in it. His mind would quietly behave in the presence of normal women, but the whispers would only climb to screams around whores.