Her death is quick, and clean, her body collapsing like a marionette with cut strings. As if she simply …stopped. Pull my hand free from her nest of wet curls, to catch her as she slumps forward, gently resting her on the couch. If it weren’t for the massive blade still buried in her neck, she would merely look asleep. Lips parted slightly in a tiny smile, eyes closed, almost peaceful. Not a mark on her anywhere else. Not a bad way to die.
I honestly hadn’t intended to take it so far with her, bringing her to orgasm a spur of the moment …kindness? Perhaps I was merely thinking of Riddick, who, if nothing else is a most considerate lover. I had, of course, intended to kill the woman, of that, there was never any doubt. From the moment she began watching me, her life was over. But I suppose, at the end, I simply pitied her. Everything she was existed right on the surface, shallow, and she couldn’t admit it to herself even then.
Even her death, in a way, was cheap, and shallow. Hollow. My feelings for her nonexistent, her death far too clean. Fascinated by serial killers. She courted death, without ever having understood it. As though it were an exhibit at the zoo, that she could stare at and taunt, and mock. Play with the predators, safely in their cages. Something to take pretty pictures of, to revel in the thrill of it, without ever having the courage to get her hands dirty. And, when she was done, simply walk away from it, as though it could never reach out and touch her, pulling her back into it’s velvet darkness.
She had sat through, at the very least, one lecture, with more than a few slides, showing exactly what murder was, in all it’s brutal, magnificent detail. Who can attest to how many others she had seen, how many other pictures were in her briefcase, in her files. How many she looked over, the small thrill rushing through her, almost sexual in it’s power, watching the results of the deaths of others, revelling in it. And still, she invited the lover of a convicted mass murderer into her room. Did it never even occur to her that a man such as Riddick could really love a woman who was not a little like himself? A killer in her own right? How could she not have known what I was, even a little? Or was that part of the thrill in itself? Did she think me safer because I was female, that somehow she could control the encounter?
She was so easy to play. So willing to go along, as long as it got her what she thought she wanted. Which is so sad when you consider that what she did want, she was afraid to admit to in the first place. I wonder if it would have turned her on even more if she knew I was an assassin in my own right. In my own way, even more dangerous than Riddick, if only because you would never look at me and suspect what I was. If she’d known, part of me believes she would still have gone through with it. Believing herself to be invincible, having for so long looked at the world through the lens she had made. As though the real world were a show put on for her amusement.
Perhaps I should have cut her to pieces. Butchered her slowly over the space of an evening while still playing with her in the same way. Gag her, or cut her vocal chords, and have her scream and cry her way through the night, to give her a taste of what she found so fascinating, when it happened to others and she just got to report it, of course.
In the end though, she hardly seemed worth the trouble. I don’t believe she would have even fought for her life, perhaps eager to believe, right until the end, that this was happening to someone else. Just another story to report, the bloody crime scene photos spread out like fetishes, to be touched and caressed. To love something second-hand like that. To be so unable to love the thing itself. Janette would never understand that purity that she at least was able to name, but would only ever be able to watch, and wonder. Captured, in the end, by a photograph of an emotion she would never even understand in real life.
I had sat before her, on the floor, contemplating her, watching her grow cold. Stiffen. My legs cramping beneath me, falling asleep. I had sought a distraction, something to make the time pass, so I would miss Riddick less. It’s not possible. Everything I touch, that isn’t Riddick, makes me want him more, by his very absense. A burning ache that grows, the more I realize how small everything seems, compared to him.
I had ordered dinner, for two, before sitting down. Had asked that the trolley be left outside the door, with instructions to knock only. I wait a moment, after the knock, before wheeling the cart inside, making sure I haven’t been seen. I had intended to merely use the cart, and dispose of the meals. Make it appear as though Janette had eaten dinner with a guest, not wanting to be disturbed, and disappeared at a later time.
It isn’t until I have the cart inside that I realize that I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I hadn’t realized how much I liked having Riddick feed me, until he was no longer here to do it. Without him here, I’ve scarcely eaten, picking at things, just enough to get by, even food seeming less without him. Now, sitting here, thinking of him, I find that I’m actually hungry. I don’t like to eat by myself, but, I guess you could say I’m not really alone. I have Janette to keep me company, if poor company. Move her jacket out of the way, on the chair opposite the couch, before curling up. I pick through a plate of fruit, and fish, a bite here, a bite there, not satisfied, but at least fed. Dispose of the rest of the meal.
The wheeled trolley has a cabinet underneath, which is what I wished for, rather than the meal anyway. Suck the fruit juice off my fingers, as I set about gathering any and all of Janette’s thing’s that I’ve either touched, or that have any tie in to serial killers in any way. The beautiful photograph of Riddick and I, I tuck that into my own briefcase. It’s something I could never destroy, in any case. I save Janette for last.
Fold her jacket carefully, before crouching over her stiffening back. Place the fabric against the side of her neck, between the blade, and the couch. Her heart is no longer pumping, so there will be no arterial spray, but the less mess I have to worry about cleaning the better. The bowie knife has a blood gutter, which is perfect for removing the blade. A small twist breaks the seal of the wound, allowing the knife to be pulled out easily, the wound easily stopped by applying the jacket. Clean the blade on her skirt, for the moment, before dropping it into my briefcase, with the picture. Curled on the couch, stiffened, Janette is quite easy to get into the cabinet beneath the trolley. One last look around, to make sure that I haven’t missed anything.
A final sigh, as I shut the lights out, and wheel the trolley down the hallway, making for the back corridors leading to the incinerator.