I never did like car rides. Always so dull, nothing to do, except stare at the road.
Boredom is never a good thing with people with me. It’s just a breeding ground for trouble.
In fact, I plotted my first murder in almost exactly the same situation- a car journey that took no time at all, but felt like hours.
The first time I realised that there really was something wrong with me.
Once again, I’d been picked up from school, given the full treatment, as per usual- lecture from, the teacher, lecture from the head, stern conversations spoken across me like I wasn’t there, concerning my future, which quickly fell into lecture from my mother, before an icy car journey home. Same old, same old.
The school had been moving to its next lesson when I was frogmarched out to the car, head teacher on one side, mother to the other. My schoolmates stepped back, pressed up against the walls, making what seemed to my mind to be a guard of honour, mouths pressed shut in stony silence, before dissolving into whispers the minute we had passed.
The car journey home appeared to be incident free to the unknowing eye, yet it marked a turning point for me. The first time I pictured myself as a murderer. With cold steel, glistening red in the sun, as the life, the fear, the agony left the eyes of my victim, and their body fell limp beside me. The dying scream, the last gasp of breath leaving their lungs, the feeling of power. And then I knew that this would be my future. Everyone who had pushed me aside, left me in the dark, dropped me like a stone; they would all pay, one way or another. Starting at the bottom, and working up to the top.It was ten minutes to the police station. Murder was on my mind within minutes, and planned down to the final detailed seconds within the next five.
Manners make or break a man.
Option choosing was always going to be an odd time for me. I didn’t have a future, and even if the laws of health wouldn’t recognise it, it was blindingly obvious. Suspected Anti- Social Personality Disorder, my diagnosis proclaimed. The prescription recommended “Cognitive behavioural therapy”. I proposed that it pissed off while it still could. But just like any other teenager, I had to pick and choose what I wanted to do for the next few years: “The choices that would shape the rest of your life.”
~~The teachers laughed when they asked me what career types I was interested in. Psychopath, serial killer, and world- renowned murderer were called “unconventional” and that was that.
When we were told to email someone who was already in my chosen line of work, I found it rather difficult to get into contact with Ted Bundy or Jack the Ripper. They could be excused for not responding, (sending emails from the grave isn’t “conventional” either, I suppose), but when I got no response from Dennis Nielsen, the man who gave me a plan and warning: hacking up bodies works, storing them under floors doesn’t.
So I picked a few options that could come in useful in my line of work- Biology was a must, along with History for more ideas, French for disguise and Geography, for escape if things went wrong.
My main research took place at home, however- reading endless cases reports of the most notorious serial killers, how they worked, and why they were caught.
But there’s nothing like practice to perfect your methods.
~~Now then, I’m going to take you back to primary school.
Remember that one kid that you could never get on with? Who seemed to be the devil incarnate to your five year old self, and sprouted devil horns the moment the teacher turned her back, dropping the sugar-sweet appearance for pure evil?
That was Teddy. His big blue eyes and shiny blonde hair could get him anything as a kid, and once puberty had ‘happened’, nothing seemed to have changed. The sandy hair became flawlessly ruffled, the blue eyes sparkled enticingly and the lopsided grin won over the heart of the school within moments.
That kid was a devil, I swear.
It’s not that I was jealous- I’m not the type to have a girl on each arm, and a following of teenage girls yapping about my ankles everywhere I go. But the smug smile he threw at every corner was sickening; sugar sweet, like drinking pure glucose- he was diabetes incarnate.
Or perfection, depending whether you like the just-stepped-out-of-the-magazine look.
But his endless ego was impossible to handle, and like any rival, I wasn’t willing to give over, even when he had the higher marks, the mass of girlfriends, the Ken doll look.
I didn’t need that.
I had a gun.
~~“Or,” I sang, turning on my heel, hearing Makaylah fall back in her chair as the gun’s aim moved from her head and found a new target.
“Or, we could see all the stuffing fall out of Teddy. Teddy surgery is the best. Once you’ve emptied him out, you can stuff him back up again, and you’ve got a new cuddly toy. And this one’s pretty life like- look at him, he’s the spitting image of a Ken doll.”
Each word saw me take a step forward, backing Teddy into his desk with the cool metal of the gun tickling his forehead. The cowed look in his eyes was everything. A whisper was all it took.
“Time’s up, Teddy. Hope you can bear it.”