Floyd took a long drag of his cigarette before shutting the radio off. He was going to have to give up the radio as he had the TV. Listening to the rants and public outrage disturbed the balance of his Chi.

Some people called him an animal. Then, there were the people who called him sick – deranged, disturbed and diabolical. The robust police chief kept offering ultimatums as he looked into the camera as if he were actually looking him in the face. Floyd scoffed. The man had been saying the same perfunctory things for years but hadn’t come any closer to finding him or bringing him to justice. If Floyd had any say it in, he’d tell the police chief to put the effort he supposedly put into searching for him into reducing his waistline. Floyd read that the abdomen was the worst place to store fat. Apparently, it set you up for all sorts of dastardly diseases. If Chief McLaughlin kept it up, he would die of some heart attack or stroke long before he caught Floyd.

Floyd was a careful man. He was neither boastful nor brash. He wasn’t in the business of leaving messages for police officers or taking tokens from the women he killed. Floyd didn’t see himself as sick, deranged, disturbed or diabolical – at least not more than any other person. Some men collected fancy cars and watches. Some women collected shoes and handbags. He was no different from them. They were the same at their core. They liked beautiful things. Floyd just thought that Death was the most beautiful thing of all.

He gazed at the woman walking in his direction. He was drawn to her in a way he couldn’t explain. It was the way he was drawn to all of them. He relished the expected tightening in his chest and the warm flush in his gut. The woman was tall and slender with her thick, black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her skin was the shade of mahogany, rich and warm.Her long, elegant neck would’ve reminded him of a ballerina if he hadn’t been so busy picturing her as a gazelle. His prey. His conquest.

Floyd didn’t follow any particular pattern with the women he chose to take the journey with him. He shuffled in his pocket for another cigarette. He didn’t have mummy issues. He wasn’t killing some woman who slighted him over and over again. The forensic psychologist got it so far wrong Floyd chuckled for hours wondering how many other times the graying woman with her austere bun spouted intellectual sounding bullshit. Couldn’t they see that he gave these women the ultimate gift? You truly lived only once and that was in the seconds you stared Death in its face. Some women cried, some women begged but others steeled themselves and accepted the inevitable. His fifth victim had mustered the strength to spit in his face. Floyd smiled at the thought of Rebekkah. She’d awed him. Floyd showed up at her burial site every year with gladiolus, flowers representing strength, on the anniversary of her death. He would sit there and tell her of his conquests with a pang he was the only one to honour her life every year. Yet he knew, wherever she was, she understood it had to be done. Floyd usually left the bodies for someone to find but Rebekkah had been different. She was still the only one to fight back. He needed to keep her for himself.

Floyd cut the engine when his new woman came closer, her stilettos clicking against the concrete. As he stepped out the car, he wondered what she would be like as he straddled her and wrapped his hands around her slender neck and squeezed until she couldn’t breathe. Would she cry and whimper? Would she be like Rebekkah? Would she be the one? His stomach tightened at the thought. He pushed away the anticipation as he trailed behind her. There had been twenty-two girls and he was yet to find the one who feared Death enough to show him what it was to live.

Photo Credit: User Credit: antpk
Photo Credit:
User Credit: antpk

© Rilzy Adams, 2014


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