serial Killer

WIDOW BLACK…

©Tanya Grout

While smashing the tips of the flower stems, so they could absorb fresh nutrients and water that filled the heavy crystal vase, it suddenly occurred to her that she could smash her third husband’s head in.

Asphyxiation and arsenic were out of the question, as Melisha didn’t want to draw attention to the first two mishaps in her marital career.

Smashing would be excellent. It would relieve her of the hatred that had been building. She could really pound it out, crush his skull, maybe bash an eye out while he begged for his life from her dead, psychopathic eyes. How fulfilling.

She could pay him back for the derogatory comments, for the affair and for making her dependent once again on a man for money. What’s a gorgeous young woman to do?

It would be his fault. He was the one seduced to elope after just days of dating. He was the one who kept her imprisoned in this kitchen, cooking things he demanded like a spoiled child. He was the one who lifted her skirts and made her feel sick with his perverted demands. He deserved it: to die.

A hammer might be nice. She would buy one on her walk to pick up fresh bread, apples and wine. She’d buy two bottles. He’d be an easy target, sloshed and expecting freaky sex.

It would be a break in – a robbery. The police would never suspect her. It would be too violent for a woman’s hand, especially one with a perfect French Manicure and such a sweet disposition. She’d have to buy a knife too – a sharp one, one that wouldn’t hurt her too much when “the robbers” ripped it across her own delicate face.

It’s decided then, she thought, pulling a perfect apple pie from the oven.

A soft roaring drew her attention to the window. As Adam rolled his Royce up the granite driveway, she poured him a Scotch and wrote him a quick note: Make yourself comfortable darling. I’m treating you right tonight. Then she slipped quietly out the back to buy wine and bread and a hammer…

©kym darkly

THE VOID…

The smell of metal and gasoline, a dirty place.

Coming to in complete darkness. Rolling back and forth on her side, no arms. Where were they? Tied, tied behind. Knees tucked in so as to fit. Feet also tied… like a pig.

The stocking was making her gag. Too tight. Her tongue was swollen where it had been bitten. It must have been a horrible fight. Starving, parched. Blood flowing. It was hers. She sucked it in, drank it. Disgusting. Gagging, but strong willed. She was weak. She knew it was the right thing to do.

Memories: the woozy feeling at the bar after one drink. Drugged, led away, knowing it was wrong, bad. Wanting to yell out but unable to speak, hearing that man tell everyone he’d take her to the hospital, he’d take good care of her, she’d be okay… but did he intend to take her like this: naked, bruised and tied in a trunk?

A flicker of the dark empty parking lot: the pain of a smashed cheek. The hammer, how it came crushing in from the side.

The worst pain of all: her mother encouraging her to waitress at that snazzy club. She remembered the proposition and the cash, the emptiness beneath the glamour. She remembered her bad decision, and that this was only her very first trick…

© kym darkly

DISLOCATED

by Kym Darkly

Trying to find one’s body can be difficult, especially when the limbs have been torn apart: disarticulated by saws and knives and evil. It’s not like I wanted to go back into that rotting corpse. I just needed to have contact one more time with my own flesh before letting it go. It hurt to find a leg in the trash, a foot in the stove and my head in the fridge between the eggs and orange juice, cradled under someone else’s hand, but I had to know what had happened to me. I had to know what that madman had done. I do wish I hadn’t found my torso and hips though – unspeakable things… I can’t even say…

© kym darkly

All materials on this website are © Kym Darkly. All rights reserved.
Please ask for permission to re-blog or re-post 🙂

kymdarkly@gmail.com