Short and Long Stories Part 2

Killingspree

She woke, cursing God for not taking her during the night; a daily ritual.

Rising slowly, opening her eyes, swinging her legs over the side of the bed until her feet felt the floor, then standing; it was all such a chore. Not again, Lord; let it not have happened again! She sighed, stepped forward. She took hold of the handle of her bedroom door, but hesitated. Get it together, girl! Another sigh – one of resignation – and she opened the door.

As soon as she stepped through she could smell it. The coppery odor she had become accustomed to. Loathed. Feared. Her eyes watered, but she forced herself forward. Turn left, down the hall, past the opening to the front room, to the end. Bathroom door in front of her, another door (the dreaded door) to her left. Nature had to be satisfied first (A short reprieve!), so into the bathroom she went.

Ignoring the pooled water beside the tub (and its slightly red tint), she did her business, washed her face and hands – repeatedly, until she felt she had steeled herself, and was ready to face it. She left the bathroom.

Through the (dreaded) door to her brother's bedroom she went. He didn't sleep here anymore; not since their parents had died. She didn't know where he slept. He still used the room, though.

Every Saturday night.

And there before her was his handiwork. Her heart skipped a beat. You'd think I'd get use to this! She took a path around the girl tied to the chair, until she stood in front of her. She gazed upon the horror, saddened. The girl's throat had been sliced open just like mom and dad's, she recalled. The blood had stopped flowing, but the girl's naked front was streaked in her own blood. It had pooled on the seat around her thighs and buttocks, and a larger pool had formed on the floor beneath her.

She shook her head sadly, resignedly. she made a half turn and went into the bedroom's private bathroom. This had actually been their mother's walk-in closet until her brother had turned it into a bathroom - of sorts. There was a stool, but the sink wasn't an ordinary one; it was an industrial type; the kind she was certain you'd find in a slaughter house.

She looked up above the sink and looked at the assortment of saws, knives and tongs. She chose the items she would need (she's a little thing; shouldn't need the heavy-duty stuff) and laid them out on the stainless steel top at one end of the sink.

She looked down at herself. I can't ruin these; I just bought them! She stripped off her underwear and hung them on a hook beside the door. She stepped out of the bathroom and faced the girl again.

"I'm tired of cleaning up after you!" she said aloud, even though no one could hear her. Sighing heavily, she resigned herself to the task, and started forward.

He was her brother, after all. She was certain he was the one who had murdered their parents, even though the police never seriously considered him a suspect. He was doing them both a favor, really; there had been years of abuse... she shoved the thoughts away, and began her Sunday Ritual' - cleaning up after her brother.

Hours later, she was tying up the final bag. She had cleaned up the tools and equipment (except the bone saw, which had broken right as she was almost through with it – that was in one of the bags, now.

She looked around the room, seeing if she had forgotten anything; but she hadn't. She was pretty much covered in blood, but a good shower, and she'd be ready for her trip to the dump site – one the cops had still not discovered (thank God!).

Several more hours had passed. She was turning back onto the main road again, having finished her grizzly work, leaving the body of her brother's latest victim in a shallow grave in an area frequented – by no one.