I’m a WriterPosted: June 25, 2015
Even his close friends found it a little creepy – the way he devoured everything surrounding violent death. Overall he was a likable guy, but his “hobby” of studying things like poisons, exsaguination rates, body decomposition was disconcerting.
He would explain, “I’m a writer.”
When he first met her, she found it off-putting as well. She didn’t think he was a serial killer, not really, but she did make him send a photo of his driver’s license to her before their first weekend together. She liked him, but his interests seemed intense.
Most murders were mundane. Boring to him. The heated alcohol argument ending in a blood-slick knife. He enjoyed thinking about the more intricate. Studying the mistakes. Realizing almost everyone who murdered someone they knew made the same mistake – they only planned how to get away with it after the killing had occurred. The killing was the goal, not getting away with the murder.
After decades of studying it all, he was confident he could not only kill someone he knew, he could get away with it. He could plan everything in advance. How to kill. How to dispose of the body. How to avoid detection. How to deal with the remorse, the regret, the desire to confess.
He talked to her about it often. He would meet her in the woods behind his tiny apartment and they would talk for hours. She had become a great listener, a muse, a sounding board.
Their conversations always ended the same way: He would kneel down and place a light kiss on the ground, precisely where he had buried her months before.
“I am a writer” he would say to himself.