The hunt is always one of his favorite parts. To him, it's foreplay, building up to a release that was weeks in the making. When he fixates on his next victim, she becomes all he thinks about. He needs to know her, inside and out. He needs to learn her routines, follow her every move. He lurks in the shadows as she walks to the gym after work. He's just a step behind her as she buys her usual morning tea from the shop on the corner. Dressed in a nondescript suit, he blends in with the rest of the businessmen that inhabit New York City.
She's just like all the rest, but to him, she's one of a kind. He treasures her, cherishes her. That's why he has to do this. Like all the other nights, he's there, just behind her, following. His eyes slide from her long, blonde hair down the length of her back, taking in every move of her muscles, every sway of her body as she walks towards the bar. The warm summer evening allows her the freedom from winter's oppressive outer clothing, letting her show off her toned body.
He watches her, transfixed, his body running on auto-pilot because he's done this every Friday night for two months. She never notices him, never looks over her shoulder. She's too vibrant and full of life to be worrying about the tall stranger following at a distance. Of course she's seen him, but he doesn't stand out in her mind. To her, he's just another face, one that blends in with the thousands she sees on a daily basis, becoming a blur in her memory.
He, on the other hand, has memorized everything about her. Her name is Mary. She works out twice a week and prefers kick-boxing. Her favorite clothes are the ones that allow her to be what she considers sexy but still keeping it modest. She wears jewel tones to highlight her immaculate complexion. She always has her cellphone with her, set to play "Hollaback Girl" when her sister calls. At the bar, she always orders the same drink, a cosmo, but will vary it depending on how her day went. She flirts openly with all the attractive thirty-somethings of the male gender and she doesn't discriminate about which of them she brings home with her.
As the night grows older, the anticipation, the desire well within him. He's holding back, waiting until he has every last bit of control... until he has his release. His pulse pounds in his head, beating out a deafening rhythm which only he can hear, but surely it must give him away. The excitement is clearly written across his scruffy features, but he's had years of practice schooling those features into complaisance and the normal, expected response for any given situation.
She enters the bar and his hand slides into the left pocket on his pants. His fingers, in order to calm his nerves, brush over the pocket knife and small roll of electrical tape. The knife is one item he always has with him. The handle is smooth from years of wear, but the blade is lovingly tended to like a pet, always kept in peak condition. She opens the door and usually, he's a few steps behind her, but tonight, he's right there. He catches the door with his left hand, holding it open for her, giving her his brightest smile as she graciously slips inside.
"And they say chivalry is dead," she quips, dipping her head slightly, smiling coyly at him from under her long bangs. He follows her inside, hanging on every one of her words, still smiling that deceptively deep grin.
He chuckles, and replies, "Not quite." He's never been this close to her before. She barely comes up to his shoulders; she's taller than he'd originally thought. This proximity, having her right under his chin, he's able to smell her shampoo, her perfume. She smells delightful, like a warm day after a rain shower. The desire to touch her hair, entwine it in his fingers is strong, but he squashes it down, perpetually teasing his own senses like the sensual touches before an earth-shattering mind-fuck. He has to wait, save it for when the control is completely in his hands, when she's completely his to do with as he pleases. All his desires would be satiated with just the control he would exert over her.
This seemingly random act of kindness has broken the ice and allowed him access to her. She's noticed his charm, her body language suggests she finds him attractive, and in an effort to seek out a potential one night stand, she takes up a place beside him at the bar. He offers to buy her a drink. He already knows she'll go for the cosmo, but doesn't let on, instead keeps up the facade of having never met her before. In actuality, he's met her dozens of times in his mind, playing out over and over again different ways the scenario could go. She accepts his offer, flashing him a classy, but lustful smile as she turns to face him. He's fixating on her eyes, captivated by the emerald glimmer.
She crosses her slender legs at the knees, making sure enough of her assets are revealed to catch his attention, and holds out a hand to him. His eyes move from her face down to her hands, noticing for the first time her neatly manicured nails are painted in a bright green that matches her eyes. "I'm Mary," she says as he shakes her hand. He holds back the involuntary shudder that's threatening to ripple through his body upon touching her hand.
"Vincent," he replies easily. This, of course is a lie, but she'll never know the difference. She starts making small talk, flirting, doing anything she can to get him interested. He's already interested, but has to reveal this slowly. Only partially listening to her talk, he nods his head in all the right places, disagrees in all the others. He needs to do everything he can to make sure she invites him home with her. While she talks, he watches her hands as they play with her hair or the bracelet on her wrist. He watches her lips form words and part in a seductive smile.
All she talks about are insipid things that he has very little concern for, but with each subject change, she orders another cosmo. She hasn't noticed that he's still working on his original beer. Being intoxicated will only hinder him and open the door for costly mistakes. The alcohol will numb the senses he so desperately needs at their peak. Anything less would be unsatisfying and comparative to going through life with a plastic bag over his head.
Finally, after four drinks, she's ready to leave. She leans in close to him and whispers, "How about we continue the party at my place?" He agrees eagerly, finally able to allow some of his desire to come through. Soon, he would get what he wanted and it will have been worth the wait. In a repeat of how they entered the bar, they left, but this time, she stuck much closer to him.
Giggling and laughing, she continued talking as she led him down the few blocks to her apartment. Her topics of conversation had become more and more sensual to match with her increasing desire to rip his clothes off. He allowed her to lead the way to her place, continually acting oblivious as to where they were headed. He was simply going through the motions, focusing instead on her hands as they roamed his body. The walk was becoming agonizingly long. When he followed her home all the other times, it had never seemed quite as long, but now that his goal was within his grasp, everything was moving slower.
Once he had closed the door to her apartment, she wasted no time getting down to business. She pressed him up against the door, leaning into him hard as her lips explored every inch of his exposed skin. He allowed her, tilting his head to the side so she had better access, but deftly turned them around so her back was up against the door. All the pieces were falling into place, increasing his desire in anticipation. He presses his hips against her hard, kissing her more furiously as he claims control of her body.
Pulling back, he smiles sadistically at her. She doesn't catch on through her drunken haze and instead grins back, a lazy, lustful smile. He brings his left hand up, trailing his fingers along her collarbone, delighting in her soft, hot skin. He moved slowly, trying not to alert her to his intentions, as he crosses her chest with his arm. He lays his forearm against her throat and presses into it. Her eyes go wide as she struggles to comprehend what's happening.
She tries to fight him off, but he just presses his weight into her harder. He doesn't notice her arms flailing against his sides; that's what he wants, after all. Her movements grow weaker as she starts to slip into unconsciousness, eventually going limp against his body. Carefully, almost gently, he gathers her into his arms like tending to an intoxicated lover. He brings her into the kitchen and sets her on the floor, propped up against the fridge. He needs to move quickly if he wants to make sure he's ready before she wakes up again.
Kneeling on the floor beside her, he pulls the small roll of electrical tape from his pocket. From his other pocket, he pulls out a pair of latex gloves. The gloves are a crucial tool and he treats them with almost as much care as he does the pocket knife; they're his saving grace. He slips the gloves on, his eyes never leaving her prone form. He pulls at the end of the tape to get it started, careful not to touch the sticky side too much, and then wraps it around both her ankles, binding them together. He always chose to tape the ankles of his victims first, that way, if he judges the time wrong and she wakes up, she won't be able to run.
If he judges the time wrong and she wakes up, she'll never have the opportunity to try to free herself, since he would kill her right then. He's always considered the a worst case scenario because as much as he would love killing her, it wouldn't be as satisfying as if he'd done it the right way. His greatest satisfaction comes from everything he does to her up until the moment of death. He takes a special pleasure in all the control he has over her. He decides how long she lives and when she dies.
He moves on to her wrists, just like he did with her ankles, crossing them and then wraps the electrical tape around them. He pockets the roll of tape as he stands up. For a very brief moment, he allows himself to admire her. He takes in all her curves, how her shirt has ridden up to expose some of her stomach. He sucks in a breath and then flicks on the stove. All he can do now is wait until she wakes up. There's no point in torture if she can't see it.
He's only been waiting a couple minutes when she wakes up. She's groggy, confused, but quickly remembers where she is and what's happening. She starts struggling against the tape, wiggling, fidgeting, doing anything and everything she can, but none of it helps. He's standing over her, leaning against her kitchen counter. "Son of a bitch!" she screams, much to his delight. He smiles darkly at her, enjoying watching her struggle. With a slight flick of his wrist, he turns on the front right burner of the stove, setting it to high.
As he fingers all of the knives in her knife block, he says, "Tsk tsk. Such foul language. I think I'm going to have to punish you. Now, which knife do I want...?" He selects one, the largest of the set, and lays the blade on the hot burner. While the knife blade heats up to a scalding temperature, he kneels beside her again. He grips her chin in his gloved hand, forcing her to look him in the eyes. "We're going to have fun," he says, pulling out the roll of tape again. He rips off a few pieces and lovingly covers her mouth with them. He doesn't want her screaming and alerting the neighbors.
She starts fighting again, wiggling against his hand, but he grips her chin harder, smiling sadistically. Fear is clear in her shiny green eyes, reflecting back at him, but this only serves to excite him further. She's panting, terrified of what he's about to do, and her eyes dart over to the knife laying on the stove. He follows her gaze, but stays quiet and returns his cold gaze back to her. Clutching her shirt in both of his gloved hands, he rips it open, completely exposing the tender, beautiful skin of her abdomen. He trails a finger lightly down her stomach, enjoying her sharp intake of breath.
He smiles as he stands up, grabbing the knife. He holds it over her so she can see the blade, and smirks as her eyes once again become the size of saucers. He kneels again and draws the blade down the length of her abdomen, from just below her sternum to just above her pelvis. She screams against the electrical tape as the knife cuts into her belly with a searing burn. The hot blade, sharp to start with, cuts her flesh like butter. His desire is not to kill her just yet, but to elicit as much pain and as many screams from her as he can. With a practiced hand, he cuts her again and again, slowly so she can feel every moment, but not deep enough to knick one of her vital organs.
The off-white linoleum floor is becoming slick with her blood as it pools underneath her. He makes sure not to step in the puddles of red, as any little trace of him could put an end to his murderous career. Leaning down towards her face, he brushes some of her blonde hair away from her eyes, tenderly, like tending to his daughter after a nightmare. Her skin is becoming ashen as the blood continues to spill from the cuts in her belly, but she's still alive. He knows it won't be for much longer, though. He brushes her forehead again as he pulls his beloved pocket knife out, flipping the blade into the air. He waits, watching her breathing become shallow.
Her eyes are still open, but they're barely seeing through the blinding pain in her stomach. Weakly, she tips her head a hair's breadth towards him, catching sight of the pocket knife. There is still enough life left in her for her eyes and her brain to register fear. Her eyes flash for a brief second, but that's quickly snuffed out as he drags his knife across her throat, slitting it cleanly across both veins.