The Murmur Killer
An Unsuspected Meeting
She wasn't my first, obviously. Too risky to be my first. She was, though, my first woman, and to this day I still delve upon the reasons of my initiation with men. I guess I really don't have a particular liking, but she was extraordinary, absolutely outstanding in every sense of the way, truly unique; but mere adjectives can't even begin to describe her greatness. It is a bold move from my part, but I will attempt to describe her physically in all her glory: blonde, and a firm wish of mine by writing this is to deny the myth that blondes are somehow "dumb", because she was simply one of the brightest; her face was of unimaginable detail, as if God had poured hours and hours of work into the crafting of her face: dimples accompanied and enhanced the already pronounced cheekbones, and the reddest lips matched the bluest of eyes, truly a work of art; her body... Even if this tale is by itself crude, I am against making it cruder by writing a vulgar description of what could only be described as heavenly. This is not an exaggeration. I could see all the men in the park stare back at her, even if they were with their friends, girlfriends, fiancees, wives... It didn't matter. If you had the fortune, the privilege to have her eyes laid on you, you had to reciprocate. Albeit "had to" sounds a bit strong, since you actually were given the chance to nod back at the Silk Goddess, a nickname of my own, given to her because of her silk sundress, which she wore as gracefully as one could.
I found her by accident. After my Sixth, I decided to go for ice cream to my favorite ice cream parlor in town, a small place brimming with life and customers. That is likely the only disadvantage of this place, although said disadvantage did help me find the Third one. I'm drifting off topic, of course, as I almost always do. I had the usual, a delicious double of chocolate and cream (beware those who think cream doesn't sound delicious: it's exquisite). I decided to talk a stroll in the park, not really something I'd usually do, but considering the termination of the Sixth had gone so well, I decided to do it. By chance, I met her. She was walking alone on a lonely road. It was about six, and even if the parlor was full, the park was deserted. She walked with parsimony, not a care in the world. I was about to approach her when a man, handsome, I must admit, ran out of the bushes and into her. I prepared to face the attacker with uplifting bravery, but with a kiss and he wrapping her with his arm, it was clear what the situation actually was. In that instant, the fraction of a second before the kiss culminated, I had made up my mind: I had to kill them. They were to become my Seventh and Eighth.
He was meant to be collateral from the beginning. In some bizarre way, I am grateful to him: it if it weren't for him, I would have talked to her, maybe we would have started dating and my killing days would be over; but that's not an interesting story, not in the slightest. No, when he came into the picture, that's when things got interesting. As any proper cleanser, I followed the usual procedure.
First came reconnaissance, as it always does. I went to the park every single day of the two weeks that followed. The day I met her was a lovely Autumn Thursday, thus I paid more attention to the visitors on said couple of days. As a creature of habit, the most rewarding and satisfying custom one can encounter is the fulfillment of the aforementioned habits. Fortunately for me, my darling was one of the most repetitive, periodic of my victims. I always found a pattern, without exception. Some took longer to find, some were an almost immediate discovery. In this case, immediate is an understatement. Not only did she go to the park on Thursday, but also every other day of the week, except on Sunday. I'd find out later that she went to church on Sundays. Oh, was she perfect.
After three weeks -the shortest reconnaissance period there ever has been-, I knew her routine by heart. I even knew his, for crying out loud. She would go to pilates on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays; her God-awful boss would make her work late on Tuesdays; she always had meetings on Saturdays in a small cafe which was conveniently close to my house. No, she was not cheating on him; she had a friend, Delilah, her name was. I remember because I despise that name. She always met up with Delilah, and despite the meetings were rather friendly, they seemed to have a serious connotation throughout them.
At some point, since their routines sometimes overlapped, I ended up knowing his routine too. It was perfect, ensuring that everything would work out appropriately. I won't say much about him. Common stuff, not important, and the protagonist of this story is her. And me.
Reconnaissance is usually the most laborious stage. The longest one lasted for three months. I was about to give up when... Drifting again, my apologies. The next stage was my favorite: approach.
Pilates. The main two benefits were that it was an increasingly popular discipline, so me joining her class wouldn't likely raise suspicion; the second benefit was that, for some time now, my lack of physical activity had become... noticeable. Two birds with one stone.
"Hi, I'm new here, do you mind if I sit next to you?"
"Of course, but I don't think we'll do much sitting, to be honest."
And she was funny. Could she seriously be any more glorious?
"Well, thank you."
"Don't mention it. So, what brings you to pilates?"
"Wikipedia, mainly. See, I'm not a very active person, but the concept of pilates, I liked. After some recommendations from friends who just won't stop talking about it, here I am."
"I started about three months ago. I have to admit, I was skeptical at first, but it has proven to be very effective."
"I can tell."
That was so stupid of me. How could I have risked everything to blurt out a raunchy compliment? I felt like dying. She didn't pay much attention to it, luckily, and we carried on with the class.
If the reconnaissance period was the shortest, the approach one was by far the longest. I wanted to meet her in other places, to casually run into her, but I could tell from our first actual meeting that she was fairly smart, if not perceptive. No, too risky; I couldn't afford to make it riskier than it already was. I remained in pilates and got to know her better. She told me what she did for a living (which I already knew, of course) and complained to me about her horrible boss. She even went as far as to break the routine and invited me to coffee one time after pilates. After that, we went to the park and that's where I formally met him.
For some men, finding your wife side-by-side with a stranger, drinking coffee and laughing would mean trouble, but he wasn't like that. Every part of him trusted her completely and vice-versa. He was lovely, too. It became clear to me that these two people formed the greatest couple I've ever met, and probably ever will.
"You must be Peter. Sandra has told me so much about you. I'm Mark."
We became friends. I like to believe that, at least. I found them charming and they insisted on introducing me to either one of Sandra's friends or one of Mark's. I always kindly refused, telling them that I was not looking forward to being in a relationship at the moment. For four months I wasn't ready. They wanted to make me happy, they actually, genuinely did. But I didn't want happiness. I wanted what they had: a continuous state of ecstatic euphoria. I knew this was true, they weren't faking it. Mark was particularly keen on the idea of having children.
The question became: why could they had that and I couldn't? It wasn't fair. And I didn't want Sandra, if that's what you're asking. I wasn't delusional, I knew she would never be as happy with me as she was with Mark, even if she was unaware of the fact that I had ended his life.
No. They had to die.
The final stage is the climax, the reason why the previous stages exist. I was invited to dinner at their house on Saturday evening. It was nearly perfect. The only drawback was that some questions would arise the following day in the church as to why Sandra and Mark were not there, but it was a minor mishap. I brought wine, which I had tampered with a sedative of my own. A very powerful sedative, which also worked as a stimulant shortly after administered. This effect slowly faded and led to a deep sleep.
It was very easy to get them to finish the bottle on their own. I told them I wasn't having any, to which Mark responded something such as "Why, is it poisoned?". I looked at him nervously until he burst out in laughs, so did Sandra and lastly me. I told them we should go to a club, that my car was right outside and that it would be a shame if we didn't enjoy such a lovely evening. With induced enthusiasm, they agreed. We walked to the car, they sat on the back seat and I drove off. After ten minutes of driving, they were fast asleep. I headed home and arranged the proper preparations. The first one to wake up was him. Being tied did not suit him. I usually wait for them to wake up on their own, but it was getting late and it's harder to conduct these things by day. I had to shake them a bit.
"Where... Peter? What's going on?"
"Not so fast. Mark. If you don't mind, I'd like Sandra to be awake for this."
"Where are we?"
"Basement, attic, your house, my house, anywhere. Does it really matter?"
"Untie me, Peter."
"No can do, I'm afraid."
"Untie me, you son of a bitch!"
"I'd rather you kept your voice down. Besides, it won't do you any good. It's soundproof."
Sandra slowly woke up. She was less confused than her husband at first and caught up quickly. No stupid questions. Outstanding as always.
"Let us go, Peter. Please. We won't tell anyone--"
"What is there to tell, my lovely Sandra? For all I know, we're just playing a game."
"Let us go, you sick fuck!"
I grabbed my weapon of choice, a beautiful, stainless steel scalpel that remained pristine even after all the bloodshed. I put it right over Mark's jugular, the blood running through his brains lifting his sweaty skin and closer to the scalpel. He fell silent.
"That's better. You are the first couple I deal with, you know? You are very special. Probably one of the few true loves there is out there. Lovely couple, lovely people. I really came to care for you."
"If that's so, why won't you let us go?"
Sandra. Of course she asked that. She was trying to play me. That was the first time I looked at her with bad eyes. I lowered the scalpel and jammed it into Mark one time. I vividly remember Sandra's cry and Mark's visceral silence.
"Are you trying to play me, Sandra?"
I stabbed him once more."
The third one was the last one.
"Yes! I tried to play you, and I'm sorry! Please, don't do that to him anymore."
"We're being honest with each other. I like that."
I left the scalpel on a small tray next to me, similar to those of a operations room. Mark's immaculate shirt now had three large bloodstains on it. He was panting and Sandra was crying. I uncovered Sandra's face: her hair was covering it.
"You are beautiful, Sandra. And Mark, he's quite handsome. Your children would have been gorgeous, I presume."
She couldn't stop crying. I wiped her tears with a piece of cloth which I used to clean the blood off the scalpel as well.
"Is Mark a cheater?"
"What? No, absolutely not!"
"Are you a cheater, Mark? Have you been unfaithful to Sandra? Is that why the poor thing is crying?"
"I would never... be unfaithful to her..."
"You wouldn't, would you?"
Mark shook his head. I grabbed the scalpel and put it on Sandra's throat. That definitely called Mark's attention.
"Wouldn't you cheat on her even if she lost her beauty?"
"No... I wouldn't."
"Let's find out, shall we?"
I drew a bloody line with my macabre brush on Sandra's right cheekbone. How she screamed, it almost made me want to stop.
"No! No, stop, stop!"
I did stop. I couldn't hurt Sandra. I just needed someone to tell me to stop. One of her many enhancing qualities had disappeared.
"What if she could not bear your children? Would you find someone else? Would you have a bastard son?"
"What are you talking about?"
Much to my reluctance, I knelt and closed in the scalpel to her crotch. She whimpered and shook. Mark shouted violently, begging me to stop. But he wouldn't prove my point. That was until I was so close that he-
"Yes! Okay, you win! I'd cheat on her, I would. I want children and if she couldn't give them to me, I would cheat on her with someone who could! Is that what you wanted to here?"
I stood up and faced Sandra, nose to nose.
"See? He doesn't deserve you?"
Abruptly, I turned around, got behind Mark and whispered some last words.
"Even the best ones fall, Mark."
I slit his throat. Sandra's uproar was historic. Some blood has fallen on her silk dress. I walked to Sandra, who kept cursing and bashing against me. I stood behind her as she stopped talking. I smelled her hair and murmured something in her ear.
"Maybe he didn't deserve you. Maybe none of us do."
Those were the last words she heard.
I took the trouble of writing this in case anyone wants to know what happened to the Marshall matrimony. I believe I failed to specify their relationship in my tale, and if I confused some of you, my sincerest apologies. I hope there will be another time when we are able to talk about this more profoundly. For now, I say my goodbyes. I leave this extraordinary couple to you, the one or ones who will find this note. I hope it will shed some light on this horrendous case. I'm sure you've had worse than me, but, right now, I'm the one you're trying to get. Without really nothing else to add, I drop my pen and pick up my scalpel. I sincerely hope you never find me.
Until next time,
The Murmur Killer.