I’m taking out the time to explore some more parts of horror fiction. In this story, I take a quick jab at the innate injustice of murder which is that nothing ever really can bring back the murdered. In addition, the lives of their families are permanently altered. To some it is some sort of comfort that the murderer does not walk freely and cannot sleep without tossing with guilt. But in reality, a lot of people who commit murders get released right back into society (after having served time, of course) and go on to have ‘normal’ lives.
“Love me… love me not” …”love me… love me not” he whispered under his breath, repeating the words in a mindless incantation as he wringed his hands in his wretched black cloth. The steady hum of the freezer behind him accompanied his crazed incantation and together they created a strange sad song that fit the occasion.
The occasion was a murder. She was an unremarkable woman. Older and with a child. Her body was soft, round with that fleshiness attributed to motherliness. They had met at the local shop where he had gone to purchase pliers to pry out the teeth from the skull of his last occasion. She had smiled innocently at him from the next aisle. That was how she came to be his next occasion.
He would swear, five months later in front of a jury made up of men his peers, about how she had flirted with him, touched his arm, with her pinkie flicking his flesh. He would rage about how she looked just like his mother and sob about how for once in her life, his mother wanted something to do with him.
When the sentencing was over and the press had died down, he would settle into bed at the asylum, gingerly laying his covers over his head. There in the darkness of the room, their faces would flit before his eyes. Each of his occasions. Sentenced to the darkness of the grave as he was to the darkness of his room. Before long, he would be asleep, snoring peacefully with the rest reserved for the wicked.
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