L.A. Detwiler - The One Who Got Away

But that’s not what this is about. This is so much, dare I say, more intricately beautiful? This dance between strong and weak.

Sickly boy. Frail boy. Weak boy.

Not anymore. I’m not that boy anymore. No, I’m not. I chuckle. No one has any idea, do they?

I tuck the piece of the newspaper between my front teeth, closing my eyes as I bite down. So thin, so delicate. My teeth click over it, creasing it. But I’m careful not to taint the actual words of the article. I need to preserve it, my trophy added to the collection.

Oh, Helen. Did you regret your mistakes? Did you think about everything that led you to me?

Helen hadn’t the slightest clue. The look of shock on her face when she saw me instead of the secret informant she was hoping for, the one to confirm her husband’s affair, to give her the proof that would shatter her world. But I shattered her first. Oh, did I shatter her.

It was laughable, really, the look on her face. They’re always so surprised. Someone they’ve seen countless times in town. Someone they’ve overlooked over and over. To them, I’m just the means to a necessary duty. I’m just a servant, in some ways. I’m just a nobody in West Green like I was all those years before.

But this nobody is certainly gaining infamy, even if it isn’t by name.

Helen was a little old for my taste, really. I usually like them younger, fresher. The skin is just better. Soft and supple between the teeth ­– it’s inviting. I savour the taste of vibrancy that seems to emanate from their skin. In truth, I’m not quite sure why Helen ended up on my list. I’d studied the women in West Green for weeks, thinking and pondering. Making the plan. Maybe it was the sadness in her eyes day in and day out. Maybe it was the fact she just seemed so lonely. Was she a pity kill? I don’t know. I’d like to think it was more than that. I’d like to think there was something more there, calling to me.

But she was the second. And not the last. There are many more steps on my path to the end. It’s a lot of work, really. Exhausting if it weren’t so energising. And, when I ask if it’s all worth it, despite the intoxicating warmth that pulses in my blood, I know she will make it worth it.

The finale. The last one. The beautiful, wily one who will be the denouement to this masterfully executed plan. I’ve already found myself lurking, watching, peering at her through the darkness. I know I should wait. I’ve got the next one to worry about. I’ve got the next one to carry out. But she’s just so beautiful. And her spark is something magnetising.

It’s okay, though. I’m not jealous. Because I know I’ll be the last one to appreciate her. And I’ll get to put that beauty on full display soon enough.

But not yet. It’s just not time yet.

I take the article reluctantly from between my teeth. I blow on the wetness, staring at the intricate pattern before I tuck away the mementos with the others and close the lid of the box.

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