New Perspective

Golden

"How cruel is the golden rule?" he asked, whilst sipping his expensive champagne. His date raised one eyebrow, above her equally expensive wine in glass, and allowed him to elaborate.

"You know, the principle of treating others as one's self would wish to be treated, I mean, what if someone were really into being tortured, and, since that rule implies that they'd like to be treated that way, does that mean that it's okay to do that sort of thing?"

He was clearly drunk, rambling on about the golden rule. After about half a bottle of champagne, he tended to rant on about random things, I noticed. I was here as a waitress, in the busiest resturant as a highly prestigest male kept blubbering on about different rules associated to ones socail life.

That's him. He's the one.

I timed when I had to leave around the same time as he did. When their night was coming to an end, I feigned sickness, allowing me to "get off work". Who am I kidding. I don't even work here.

We, the man, his date and I left the building around the same time. Just in time for me to witness him nearly fall over onto the ground in front of his lovely date.

I rushed over to them, where the young lady was starting to freak out. She was also intoxicated, with quite a bit of alcohol in her system.

I kneel beside him, and in a well practised Russian accent, I ask;

"Sir, are you alright"

To what I got in response was a laugh, and the phrase "these lights are too heavy for me"

At this point, his date had wondered down the street, and I was left alone with him. Excellent.

"Sir, do you need me to take you home?"

Pulling him up, I half carried, half dragged him to my car and sat him down in the driver's seat.

He had fallen asleep in seconds.

Good thing I knew where he lived.

I drove in silence up to his house, while going over the basics I knew about him.

Peter Kingston, aged 27. Respected in his work area. Highly talented engineer. Kicked his daughter out of home when she was 16 for coming out as pansexual.

I pulled up to his driveway, and parked my car in front of the house, waking Peter up as I did so.

"Peter wake up. We are home."

An incoherent thanks was mumbled as I hopped out to pull him out of the car. I somehow managed to get him to his room and got him lying in bed before I got a drink for him. In his kitchen I poured a glass of water, and got out a sedative, Lorazepam Intensol, that I have in a secret pocket of my coat pocket.

I walk over to Peters room, where I had him the pill and water. Without questioning, he downs it, and after taking the glass off of him, I lay him down on the bed, tucking him in.

The sedative immediately takes action and his eyes start to droop, and eventually falls asleep.

Walking to the living room, a piece of paper and a pen was acquired. I wrote a note to leave by his bedside table to inform him that I tucked him into bed, and that he had taken an asprin before falling asleep. I walk back to the bedroom to drop off the note, and go to the bathroom where the pills were kept. I swapped the apsrin for the sedatives and left the house.

Two hours later I snuck back into his house. This time more prepared for what I was about to do.

First I walked into the living room. There was enough equipment there to start a fire. So I lit one. I sat back and admired my work. Now for the fun part.

Walking into the kitchen was the way bit. It was going to be a bit more of a challenge to find the knife rack. Opening up a few cupboards and draws, I found what I was looking for. A sharp knife.

I walked into the bedroom where our next person was situated.

I sat on the bed beside where he was sleeping. His neck was exposed to me. Excellent.

I took my bag off my back, paranoid I was going to get any blood on it.

I run my glove over the patch of skin that was showing, and felt his pulse slightly. This was going to be fun.

I jabbed the knife down into the crook of his neck and pulled it back out, creating a fountain of blood.

He gained conscienceness after that action to which I grabbed his pillow and, as he was bleeding to death, was also being smothered to death.

I removed the pillow and gazed into his eyes. For a split second I saw god crying. But just like that, it had gone.

I stayed in that position for two minutes before deciding to change my outfit. After peeling off a glove, I grabbed my bag with my non-bloody hand and walked into the living room where I could get changed.

After changing my clothes, the bloody ones got thrown into the fire, which just lapped up the fabric, eating it until it was ash.

I am the monster you hope your children don't grow up to be. My name is Rebecca Murray and I am a serial killer.

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923 words
Published 7th November 2018