Every Serial Killer Is a Thief
Behind the old wooden bridge that leads into PleasureBeach, the setting sun was coloring the sky. It was igniting a burst of colorful rays that seem to reach the once popular beach and warmed the weed infested sands. But this heavenly vision was lost on the solitary figure seated on a broken bench over looking the Long Island Sound. He was staring at the screen of his Smart Pad.
He was reading the headlines on the screen of his wireless device and the words stung him like an angry hornet.
Every serial killer is a thief…they steal lives.
That comment made by one of his victim’s parents had dismantled him. In his crazed mind he tries to make himself believe that he didn’t steal lives, he saved souls. That statement infuriated him.
He would only kill children of people who had mixed relations. He believed that the world would no longer be a melting pot if all the races mixed. There would be no need for individuality. We would all think and eat the same. He couldn’t have that and the only way to send a message was to start with the children.
There was solace on that condemned beach. With his victims, he would find consolation. He had them buried in the weeded sands. He didn’t consider them trophies, but messages and reminders that race should be separate.
His last victim kind of sent chills up his spine. Her tiny face stuck in his head, taunting him. Never had a kill cut so deep. The serial killer slammed closed is Smart Pad and flung the wireless device into the water that tried to clean the dirty sands. He knew the child’s father was black and her mother was white, but that didn’t alleviate the pain he felt when he smothered the child to death. It was such an easy kill, but it was the most difficult one at the same time. Then the comment she made nagged him.
Every serial killer is a thief…
He had to get that statement out of his mind or find another way to select and attract future targets. The fact that he was sending a message to the world consoled him, but that comment made him feel worn and listless. He knew he was doing the right thing, and it was only a matter of time that the world would soon agree. He collapsed in front of the broken bench and stayed on the sand. There he looked at empty clam shells and dried crab skeletal remains. The seagulls flying high above were singing into the sky as the water splashed on beach. He was over obsessing over the comment and not thinking about the pleasure of ridding the world of one more product created by mixed relations.
He had to clear his mind, and he knew that the beach here would help. He eyed the skeletal remains of the crabs for any sign of movement. They didn’t budge. That’s when he felt a sense of power growing within him. The skeletal remains didn’t move. The dead can’t speak, or make statements.
He slowly stood up and looked toward the Long Island Sound. A smile slowly emerged on his face.
Other Quick Flash Crime fictions by Frank F. Atanacio:
© 2013 Frank Atanacio
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