His blond soft wavy hair is fluffy and reaches only to the nape of his neck. His fair skin and ice blue eyes would resemble those of a baby angel if it wasn’t for his 70s porn-star-inspired mustache. When I first saw his eyes, the distinctive Latvian or maybe Nordic blue hue made me freeze. It is not a blue I thought possible in humans – a mix between sky and ice. There are speckles of white in there, as well. He wears big circular glasses with thin frames. His lips are thin but not too thin, very kissable – they remind me of Niel’s lips from the kpop group Teen Top. He hasn’t shaven in a few days maybe, as evident by his stubble – as blond and soft-looking as his cloud of hair. The shirt he is wearing is black with brown and gold-ish sacred geometry figures, interweaving in a galaxy-like pattern. The lines are thin, which creates this illusion of a spiderweb covering his shirt. He wears it unbuttoned to the middle of his flat, fair-skinned chest. His looks are deceptive – skinny but strong. The muscles visible on his chest seem firm. The black pants and brown walking shoes give him a somewhat old-timey vibe, even though they are new as if he would fit right into a not-so-swanky piano bar in the 2000s. He is slightly hunched over as he writes on a stack of papers. His eyebrows are straight and have the determination to be bows, readying themselves to send a piercing look right at you. His hair is all over the place – not static, just no visible effort put to tame its appearance as strands of hair dangle in his face or overlap each other. With his small and pink hands, with his long fingers, he is an epitome of innocence.
And yet, every day he wakes up from the warmth of a new body above him. Well, warmth is relative – the dripping blood is still warm, but the body has turned cold by now. Once the blood in his bed runs cold, he gets up. Feeling sore. Dragging drugged-up limp bodies up 3 flights of stairs and not seeming suspicious is quite the workout. He prefers looking frail, it makes it so much easier to gain people’s trust – despite his regular physical exertion, he makes sure not to eat too much protein, so he doesn’t bulk up.
The way he chooses who will he bring home is simple. He walks around, and meets men and women, who captivate his attention – they all have one thing in common: their joyous radiance. Naively trusting, they have all remained childlike in appearance even though all of his victims are legal adults. He dislikes harming children. He feels his victims’ radiating joy seep into him, while he carries their lifeless bodies home. That is the only time he doesn’t feel empty. He knows he should have himself checked but slicing people’s throats and hanging them from the ceiling above his bed is his only pleasure. That way the blood drains and pools all over him, keeping him warm and allowing him to fall asleep under someone’s happiness and bright memories. The body truly stores each and every experience – as he allows each drop of blood to roll onto his face and find its way down his body, he experiences the life of his victim as if it’s his own. He feels and remembers all pain and pleasures his victim has endured. Of course, it took consistency to perfect this spiritual skill.
He would have been caught if it weren’t for his consistency in gaining people’s trust, in barely talking about himself, and in practicing how to dispose of dead bodies. Sometimes this lifestyle was tiring. Mostly, it was exhilarating. He got to experience thousands of lives while cleaning the world from naivety. A double mission, his personal purpose.
I’ve been fascinated by him for a long time. His professionalism and innocent appearance captivate me. It seems as if there are no ups and downs in his life – he acts the same way every day. Even his luring persona is always the same, he doesn’t change it. I don’t know if that’s because of a superstition that’ll give him luck on his hunt, or because it helps with his consistency, or because of the cold knowing of his imminent success. Even under pressure, his breathing is undisturbed, it is never shallow – he always takes deep breaths, like a singer or a yogi. His face doesn’t change either – it is frozen in the aloofness of innocence and self-indulgence, completely self-engulfed. The only time he breaks this mask is in solitude when he thinks no one is watching as he succumbs and surrenders to the blood fall. He dissipates in the destiny of others, though he is the one to cut those fates short. When he is ‘feeling down’, it is always an act to gain sympathy. It never fails. It is an act for him to be happy and satisfied, too – he makes sure that the only thing that brings him true pleasure is never-ending. He is clever in that regard: he picks places to live, where missing people will go unnoticed, or the police are understaffed. He moves away before anyone becomes concerned. He is always a magnificent tenant and never leaves any traces of his mischief. Often, wildlife is blamed for his crimes. He enjoys the mountains, or so I speculate. Many of his victims were hikers gone missing, presumably mauled by predators, when in fact they had been hung up from trees with their throats sliced like sacrificial goats, then abandoned for the wildlife to feast on.
I do not want to be like him. I dream of making love to him as someone else’s blood is bathing and cleansing us of sins before he slits my throat. I dream of being his only fully aware and free victim. His last. My poison is working, and soon he won’t be anymore.