Zsasz pulled into the empty parking garage and killed the engine. He sat staring at the wall, dissatisfied. Drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Arched his back and rolled his shoulders. He didn't want to deal with it right now, but he didn't really have much choice.
He was repaying an old debt. Her name was Annah. She was tallish, average build, brunette. Dark brown eyes and full, naturally pretty lips. Currently, she was secured to a large, heavy metal chair in the middle of a cold room. Ankles and wrists cuffed, mouth taped.
She was different from the others-she put up absolutely no fight. This was astonishing to him. It wasn't that she wasn't completely terrified-this was more than apparent in her eyes. She might have thought if she behaved and kept quiet he would let her go. It's a reasonable rationale for a victim to have, when he thought about it, but no one else had taken that approach. His only quiet victims were the few that also had quiet demeanors and miserable lives (these were his favorite).
He made his way to a marble table on the far side of the room that held a wide variety of knives. A memory flashed across his mind as he picked up a medium sized scalpel. It was Wren, in the back room of the library, crying as she placed some books on a shelf. When her arms were empty, she sniffled and crossed her arms over her chest as she tried to compose herself.
That was over a month ago, long before she knew he'd been following her.
When he looked back to Annah, her eyes were closed tightly, tears rolling silently down her pretty cheeks, head down.
"Look, kid…", he sighed heavily. As if anything he could say would make the girl feel better. She was about to be murdered. He couldn't even believe he was giving it a second thought. Was he actually feeling a bit of...remorse? What was going on with him?
In front of her now, he knelt, nearly eye level. He pressed the scalpel to her throat then removed it. He lifted her shirt, exposing vulnerable skin, and repositioned it against her abdomen. Wren invaded his thoughts again, and he wondered what it would feel like to cut her skin...would he even be able to do it, how would it make him feel...her warm blood spilling over his hands...
He felt both desire and disgust.
"Sorry", he said, putting the blade back on her throat, slicing cleanly from one side to the other.
He didn't move for a while, staring at a clock on the wall in front of him. Watching the seconds turn to minutes, unwilling to look at the girl. He didn't want to be in the room anymore.
Back in the car, he returned a call he missed while he was taking care of the girl.
"It's done", he said gruffly.
"Where is she?" The voice on the other end sounded old and emotionless.
"She's still in there. Do what you want with the body, that's not my job."
"Dump her in the river", his voice was irritated.
Victor scowled. "I said I'm fucking done." He hung up the phone.
Later, he would take off his shirt, draping it over the door. He'd pick up a small blade, arm out and turned upwards to break the skin. The first of a new cluster of tally marks. The skin was tender there, a few inches from his underarm, and it burned as a few beads of blood bloomed on his skin.
He wasn't even smiling this time.