Perhaps the real demon lives within ourselves. Is it not by the hands of man his victim is slowly strangled. Does he not watch all of the pretty colors the skin on her face change as he squeezes tighter in his excitement?
Echoes of ear-piercing laughter can be heard through his walls. The sound flows like the beautiful notes of a symphony. A paranormal entity making its way through the wall and into the apartment next door.
It is next door another man listens with a glass to the wall. Sealing in every note and vibration. He rubs himself. His excitement expanding throughout his body. It runs through his blood. The blood rushes through stretching the veins, determined to circulate. To escalate. To masturbate. To ejaculate.
The guy next door has no face. He has no name. He is not a murderer.
He is a dreamer. He is an observer. How fortunate he is to be living next door to a rapist and murderer. He does no wrong. He is harmless. He only imagines sexually torturing a beautiful woman. A nameless woman. She is shapely. She is soft. She is anger. She is joy. She is already dead. She has no face. She’s made of plastic. She is nameless.
In his mind, she was never alive. She is nothing more than a pair of shoes. He must wear them. He inserts his a foot. He ties it up. It is bound for hours as he walks all over them. When he is finished, he pulls them off and he tosses them into a cold, dark closet. He is finished with them. There they will stay until the need for them pops up again.
She is a shoe. She stays under his feet. He is in control. She is nameless.
Of course, this is all in his mind. He never actually hurts anyone. He thinks about it. That’s different. He fights the urge. In fact, when he is afraid he may actually take the woman he is stalking, he will take a small animal instead.
He imagines raping and killing a woman would be the most euphoric experience a man could ever have. Killing a small animal is not comparison. But- at least it isn’t wrong, he reasons to himself. He is in control. He mutilates the small animal. He pleasures in the shrill cries for help. He giggles in excitement. He uses the animal to keep him from killing a woman. He giggles again.
So far, he has not killed a woman. He smiles proudly to himself. A stroke of luck. He begins to think of all of those rabbits. A baby rabbit was his first kill. He was 10. He kept the rabbits feet – all of them – for luck. He still has them. In a jar. On a shelf. One of many in his collection. How it has grown over the years.
The rapist does the things he has always dreamed of. That guy is evil. He actually does kill a real live woman. The guy-next-door doesn’t even squeal. He is not a rat. That is even a worse crime than murder!
All is quiet. The man-next-door knows what will happen next. Soon, he will hear the whirl of power tools. How he wishes he could see! He imagines the man as he dismembers the body. After the whirl, comes another exciting part.
The scent of garlic, onions, spices and flesh cooking. It smells almost like a pot roast. He wonders if the man follows a recipe…or maybe he is able to toss anything in the pot and make it taste wonderful. How the guy-next-door wishes he could cook. Tonight, he will eat 3 TV dinners. Meanwhile, his Idol….his Hero…the rapist will feast on the tender, juicy Breasts of a Princess.
Fleetingly, he contemplates inviting himself to dinner. Quickly, he dismisses the thought. He could not allow himself to be associated with the neighbor. He didn’t want to risk having cops nose around his home. They wouldn’t like his collection in the basement.
He didn’t want to get involved. He isn’t a murderer. He isn’t a mealy-mouth gossip. He isn’t a tattle-tale. He is a respectable man. He sticks to himself. He stays out of trouble. He’s an observer.
He isn’t a murderer.
by Renee Robinson mhttp://www.facebook.com/zonaflames