It was one of those moments that I never forgot. The first time I saw a girl in her complete nakedness, her bare flesh vulnerable to the toxins of her surroundings. It felt so exhilarating and so liberating, to the point where I felt like I wouldn’t be able to stop my internal desires exploding with hunger. Suddenly, the voluptuous goddesses that I had spent many of my adolescent days studying and fantasising about were no longer an intimate, steamy dream. They were a real, discernible object, there for my exploitation. The only way I could possibly describe it suitably is by comparing it to a mother giving birth to her child; for long enough it is only a delectable daydream, but when that bundle of life and opportunity is presented to her it is a euphoric moment of realisation.
To lure her in was the easy part; I was an attractive young man. Although many misjudged me as being a creep and a freak, I had a certain status and appearance that the other young predators did not. It proved to be one of my strongest weapons, aside from the crowbar I would keep in the back of my Beetle in later years. But you know about those murders of course, so I won’t divulge any further. Instead, let me tell you about one of my first sexual experiences; one that really stood out from the rest. A pivotal moment for me, I guess. It just so happened to be Lynda Ann Healy’s last sexual encounter.
It was the end of January 1974 and I had been listening to the weather-girl on the radio for a few days intently, trying to comprehend how someone so beautiful and full of potential had slipped my attention for so long. Lynda Ann Healy. Even the name sounds delicious; it rolls off the tongue with a lubricated sense of lust. Soon enough, not even my ritual masturbation session could withhold my hunger and whilst Elizabeth was away visiting relatives, I took the opportunity to wait by the radio station in the mornings so that I could follow Lynda home and plan my attack. Elizabeth, my girlfriend of the time, meant well and would make a good wife to anyone, but she just didn’t give me the thrill or the excitement that I was looking for. She was – how can I put this – too old for me. Her skin was wrinkled, and she was no longer a freshly broken seal like Lynda was, especially as she came with a young child. So my little projects kept me entertained, and each time I found something more crazy and orgasmic to experiment with.
That night I waited until about 10pm from behind a garden bush and when I saw Lynda return home, I carefully snuck over to her wall. She pulled the short straw and had a basement bedroom, but this made it all the more enjoyable for me. There wasn’t much of a chance of being heard from down there. As I crept over to the small window of entry by the very bottom of the house, I overheard Lynda on the phone. She was talking to someone, presumably her boyfriend. She used the word ‘love’, and seemed to rejoice in hearing his voice. I think this awoke something deep inside me, like a fiery demon of some kind, because before I knew it I had plunged through the window and entered her chamber.
I can still hear screams now; they never left. A white nightgown draped her beautiful body and her silky brown hair fell gracefully down the back of it. Grabbing a hockey stick from her open closet, I hit her over the head with the most anger and ferocity I had ever felt leave my body. Like a droplet in a pool of water, she fell to the ground and her limbs spread conveniently apart. Slowly, a crimson silhouette began to form around her skull. I knelt down and stared in to her deep, eternal eyes and as I watched her life slowly begin to fade away, I remember smiling and whispering:
‘You’re very special to me. We’re gonna make passionate love to each other, okay?’
Then I gently removed her nightgown, and hung it up neatly in her closet where it belonged, before returning to her limp body and lying down next to her on the rug. I stroked her neck and massaged my hand on her sumptuous breasts. I inhaled her and let her sweet aroma linger in my nostrils as I ran my fingers up and down her crotch. Then, never letting my eyes detract from hers, I climbed on top and the fun began. Tears had gathered in her eyes at this point, and I remember telling her how beautiful she looked as I picked up my pace. She whimpered and pleaded with what I can only assume was her last breath of life, but it only turned me on more. It was such a wonderful moment between us that seemed to get more intense with every thrust that I made and every loss of breath she suffered. Then I reached climax and ejected my seed inside her, and felt a strange comfort knowing that I did not need to worry about it. Her now lifeless body was broken beneath me and I had never seen a more enticing sight. I leant down and let my lips press against her cold, pale cheek, before selecting an outfit from her closet. I liked dressing people up, you see. I chose a pair of jeans, a nice white blouse and some boots for her. She really looked pretty in that get up and I was particularly proud of her. So proud that I took a photograph on my camera, because when you work hard to do something right, you don’t want to forget it. But then the time had come to hide her body, so I cradled her in my arms as carefully as I would my own child as I made my way to the car. From there, I hid her in the mountains so that she could reside with the beauty of nature for the rest of time.
People often question me as to why I do these things and each time I tend to give a different answer. To be honest, it’s mainly for the thrill. I know what I am doing is wrong, and society as a whole frowns upon the murder and the necrophilia, if you want to call it that. But some of those girls were just irresistible and I couldn’t contain my urges. No one will truly understand what I felt, especially after the moment ended. On the one hand, making love to those bitches was great, but on the other, realising the extent of my loneliness was devastating. Now, your society is going to exterminate me in its most extreme way and I can honestly say that I agree with your decision. I am an infection, I am heartless, and I am evil. But believe me when I say: I won’t be the last. There are many more out there just like me, and it’s all happening right under your nose.
I have always found serial killers fascinating (to study, not to admire) and one of the first ones that springs to mind is Ted Bundy. So for my third writing portfolio at University, which was based on transpositions, I chose to transpose Ted Bundy’s final interview and create a short story that could have been an answer to a fictional question in the interview. I hope this does not offend anyone in any way, I wrote this to be creative and try and improve my writing skills. It is entirely fictional, with some factual elements distorted for my creative purposes.