𝔈𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔉𝔞𝔱𝔢

𝖘𝖑𝖊𝖊𝖕𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖞

Smeared, bloody fingerprints were left on the metal of the faucet as Ted turned it on. Of course, it wasn't his blood that dyed the clear water a deep red and disappeared with a soft gurgle down the drain. He rubbed his hands with his fingers, looking up into the mirror in front of him as he washed the blood of his deed from his hands.

Ice-cold, blue eyes stared back at him.

He lifted one of his hands to his face, wiping away a few specks of blood from his cheek and chin with his damp fingers, which shone back at him in the dim light of the bathroom lamp. A soft chuckle mixed with a sound of pain escaped his lips as his fingers traced the deep, bloody scratches that bitch had inflicted on him. She shouldn't have resisted so much; in the end, her resistance only made her suffer more, and maybe he would have been gentler with her if she had cooperated. He snorted softly and spit disdainfully into the sink. He wouldn't have been; they all didn't deserve his gentleness, no matter how much they begged, promised, screamed in pain and desperation. He turned off the faucet, took a towel with which he dried his hands, and then carefully dabbed his face. He hissed softly between clenched teeth as he dried his wound, letting the towel fall carelessly next to the sink afterward.

His gaze fell again on his reflection in the mirror, the thrill of each new kill still shimmering in his eyes, the adrenaline that coursed through his body each time he plunged a knife through the lungs of his pretty victims, or wrapped his hand around their throats, digging his fingernails into their carotid artery, more intoxicating than any drug in this world. And even more addictive. He needed more each time, consumed by the desire to kill. Yet, doubts crept into his thoughts, and fear into his body, still slightly trembling from the subsiding excitement. Had he gone too far this time, should he have held back, had he become too careless, too negligent?

He stripped off his white shirt, now marred with bloodstains, letting it fall to the cold bathroom tiles. Reaching into his jeans pocket, he pulled out a cigarette and a lighter, igniting it with a quiet click. He brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep inhale, observing the reflection of the burning cigarette before him. As he exhaled with a quiet sigh, the white smoke enveloped him and his reflection—an attractive, muscular man with captivating blue eyes and thick brown curls that now clung, disheveled and damp with sweat—or perhaps blood—to his forehead.

They had seen him. Him and the black Cadillac. And the blood. Damn, it was only a matter of time. They knew he was in the area, and it was inevitable they would find him sooner rather than later. He had to get away, to flee. Both of them did.

His fingers tightened around the cigarette with noticeable tension, taking another drag. However, instead of being soothed by the warm smoke, he choked on it. The cigarette fell to the floor in a sudden bout of coughing, where he hastily stomped it out with his black boot, leaning forward to grasp the white marble of the sink, supporting himself with both hands as he gasped for air.

"Damn," he growled, once he could breathe normally again, the sharp pain in his lungs subsiding and his body finally allowed the oxygen that he had so often denied his victims.

He casually wiped his rough lips with the back of his hand, then, clenching his fist, he struck. The icy, rage-, fear-, and pain-filled eyes of his reflection shattered with a loud crash and a frustrated scream into thousands of glistening shards.

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He carefully sat down beside her on the bed, trying not to wake her, and brushed a few strands of hair from her face that had fallen across her forehead and closed eyelids. Her long, dark lashes twitched as she was submerged in a dream world, one to which Ted's pills often sent her. His fingers glided over the delicate skin of her pretty face, resting his hand on her cheek and gently stroking it with his thumb, while he thoughtfully hummed a melody. His expression now composed, his blue eyes emotionless, gazing out of the wide bedroom window. Only the bloodied knuckles of his left hand served as a reminder of his earlier outburst of emotion in the bathroom mirror, as he reached for the nightstand and his fingers closed around the handle of one of the sharp kitchen knives he had moved from the kitchen to the bedroom some time ago.

His gaze then returned to the slender, attractive body covered by a soft blanket next to him on the bed. It had been a week, he remembered, as he mindlessly let the blade of the knife glide from the blanket over her chest up to her pale neck, letting it rest there above her carotid artery.

A week since he had tied her up here, since she had tried to kill herself, because even death seemed like a much better fate than spending another second with him. He snorted disdainfully, looked away from the young woman next to him, and at the same moment pressed the blade a bit firmer against her throat, causing a red drop of blood to form on her pale skin and a soft whimper to escape her pale lips.

He had only untied her to let her use the bathroom or take her with him to the kitchen to eat together, making sure she ate enough because he didn't want her to starve. He hadn't saved her from death only to let her slowly die another time. He had taken good care of her. And no, even if you might think so, he hadn't raped or hurt her. At least not yet. He had really taken good care of her, and indeed, she was doing better than a week ago, even if she spent most of the last days and nights drugged by the substance Ted gave her or sleeping, tied to the bed.

Well, of course her sight, her beauty, her devotion aroused him. She was exactly his type, and with each hour he spent beside her during the last days, watching her, his blue eyes capturing every slight rise and fall of her chest, every twitch of her eyelids, every movement of her pretty lips, she seemed more beautiful, more desirable to him. Sometimes he thought she might be the prettiest victim he had ever had. And yet, he restrained himself, not entirely sure why, but then again, he was Ted Bundy, and what he did didn't necessarily have to make sense. Maybe he didn't want to destroy her beauty, perhaps he was genuinely starting to feel affection for her, or maybe this was just part of the cruel game he played with the people in his life.

Admittedly, when they ate together (by the way, he, of course, forced her to prepare the food and then clean up afterward, or to do the house-cleaning, even if she was injured and drugged, she still had the strength for that, right?), he often let her sit on his lap, an arm wrapped around her, pressing her hips to his, and he enjoyed it when she shifted lightly on his lap to reach for her plate or to grab a drink. And when he lay next to her under the blanket at night to catch at least a few hours of sleep, he would pleasure himself while inhaling her scent and taking the beauty of her sleeping, defenseless body into his dreams, imagining what he could do to her. Like wrapping his fingers around her throat, strangling her while raping her, just to name one example.

But he held back, and that was the reason he had been too inattentive earlier when he vented his pent-up desire to kill on a new, innocent, insignificant young victim, taking the sexual gratification he refused to take from Kayla.

And now, they would surely find him soon.

"Damn," he growled, abruptly pulling the knife away from Kayla's throat and letting it fall beside him on the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands.

What was he to do now? How did he deserve all this? All he wanted was to lead a peaceful life and kill beautiful, young women, was that too much to ask