The serial killer's weakness

Five ❦

"So....daddy issues?" I asked, taking in the resemblances between the two.
"Says the serial killer," she shoots back taking a step back, it thrilled me to know she was wary, that she knew her place. Fortunately her comment hadn't really set me off, if she knew she knew, my main worry was if she was going to hand me in after I did what she'd asked. I barely knew this chick and from what I did know, she was bat shit crazy. Although to quote her, 'says the serial killer.' It was like the pot calling the kettle black, but if she was to be around me I could call her what ever I wanted.

"If you tell the cops, I'll kill you," I blurted out, it seems this matter was bothering me more than I was letting on. To my surprise she laughed and took a step forward. All wariness she had shown was gone, she looked completely confident. She tilted her head to the side slightly, her milky irises darting from left to right, it looked like she was trying to see me, not my face but who I was.
"How would you do it?" another step forward, "kill me that is," our toes were touching. The knife felt heavy in my pocket. "Slit my throat with that little knife you have?" I tensed up, she was invading my personal space and talking down to me. "Strangle me to death?" She lifted her head baring her neck, it was smooth and unmarried, oh how I wanted to fuck it up.

"Beat me to death?" A smirk was playing on her lips, she was enjoying this, my struggle, and the thought of me hurting her. It was suddenly hitting me how fucked this girl truly was. She opened her mouth again to talk but I cut her off. A snarl ripped itself out of my throat and my hand flung out to grip her chin. "Enough," She was in pain. I could tell by the barely concealed wince that curled her lips like sour milk. "Now, I suggest you be a good girl and shut the fuck up," my free hand snatched the knife from my pocket and I dug the tip into the base of her neck. Relief flooded me at the sight of crimson trickling down her ivory skin.

"Before I take my little knife and carve you up beyond recognition," The wince had turned into a genuine smile and I found myself disgusted. Hurting someone that enjoys it as pointless as skinning a dead body. A particularly cold gust of wind blew past us, and I found myself wanting to dump her body out in the woods and watch as she slowly died of hypothermia. Clicking my tongue I released her, turning in the direction of home. "Meet me here tomorrow," She nodded, that same stupid grin on her face. "I'll bring my cards!" She shouted after my retreating figure, I'm fucked if I know what that means. If she thinks we're going to be doing anything other than brutally murdering someone, she's in for a harsh reality check.

It was bright and hot. Two things I hate, this was already a bad day, I don't like killing on bad days. It ruins the fun. The sun glinted of sun bleached cars and rusted roofs, oppressive heat pushed down on me like rolling waves in a powerful current. In short I was uncomfortable and pissed. If she's late she's dead. To my pleasure and slight disappointment the white haired nuisance was standing outside the diner, hands tucked into a think flannel jacket. Sensing, well I'm assuming she sensed me, she lifted a hand in a lazy wave. "I brought my cards,"
"Don't care," I mumbled walking past her and into the air conditioned diner.

"I need details," I muttered, hands itching at each other, it was back, that hunger that could only be cure by pure unadulterated murder. Glumly, she slumped down into the seat across from me, a pout blistering her face. She looked like she had been punched in the mouth and they had swelled up, the expression didn't make me feel guilty, if anything I wanted to be the one who metaphorically punched her.

She said nothing, just played with a rectangular pouch she had taken out of her pocket. She pulled at the drawstring a few times before tightening it back up, she'd drum it against the table and it would make a slight clacking noise. It was purple and had a peculiar pattern of golden moons and suns scrawled all over its velvet material. "Do you want this guy dead or not?" I seethed, I had now begun cracking my fingers. Pausing, she dropped the pouch and looked at me, her face slightly crinkling. "I wish I could see you," My chair let out a screech of protest as it scraped across the wood floor. Grabbing my jacket I strolled out of the diner trying to act as casual as I could.

If I had stayed, I would have scraped those useless eyes right out of her head. I didn't have the patience to deal with her and her games. I just needed to kill someone. The dull thudding of shoe falls sounded behind me and I had assumed it was her coming to torment me again. "Cas?" I was correct. "Casimir," I spat, facing her, "how do you know my name?" She tilted her head slightly seeming to be testing the waters. "Ruth talks about you often, says you're a good 'fella'," She hadn't made an effort to close the large distance between us, I assumed it was because she had some form of brain.

"Jalem Halford, 92 East street, Dwellingup," She listed, staring directly at me. "Divorced, one daughter and a registered sex offender," Bringing my hand up to my chin I scratched at it thoughtfully, watching her with a new kind of curiosity. "And he assaulted you when you were young?" I finished, dropping my hand. She nodded, fiddling with the strange pouch again.
"He's registered, how much jail time did he get?" Why do I care so much?
"None, He has friends in high places," She said, finally unwinding the drawstring and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. "You smoke?" When did we become so casual?

"Started when I was fifteen," she answered, pulling out a black lighter and striking her thumb against it. The flame was intermingled with blues, oranges and reds, it flickered and swayed playfully, beckoning me towards it. It's fiery tongue swiped and licked at the tip of her cigarette like a hungry cat to a bowl of milk. "I love fire," I heard myself say, but I don't remember actually saying it, I was too transfixed. "Same," She said, slowly waving it in front of her face before flicking her thumb back causing it to return to its safe nest of lighter fuel. A heavy lump of disappointment weighed down on my chest at its disappearance.

"Fire has a very lively aura, which is strange since it causes so much destruction," she shrugged, placing the rolled paper between her lips. "Destroying things is fun, why wouldn't it be lively?" She chuckled, smoke poring out of her nostrils and parted lips. I hated the smell of cigarettes.

"When are we going to do it?" She asked, tapping ash into a nearby plant. I knew it would be a good idea to wait a while, get a plan, less chance of fucking up. "Tonight," Then again I was feeling extremely murderous. A smoke filled grin spilled across her face, like a knocked over tin of paint. "Nice," I didn't like the thought of someone being there for something that had always been private to me, killing was my sanctuary, my safe place, nothing could hurt me with a hammer in my right hand and a bloodied girl in the other. "I do most of the work," she nodded, happily puffing at her cancer. "If you don't stop those bloody things will kill you before I even get a chance," She laughed, although she knew I wasn't joking.

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