My brother was a Shakespeare lover. He lived and breathed the words of a man his generation took for granted. The people of that time didn’t respect or appreciate the anguish and torment tied into each tragedy he produced under the guise of true romance.
Marcus was a romantic to the core, with nothing but light and beauty shining from him.
The world around us snuffed out that light.
They stole his grace.
Shamed his name.
Killed him.
Destroyed us.
With great amusement, I watch as the Boogeyman exhales his last breath. No longer will he steal lights as bright as my brother’s.
The Boogeyman will no longer be seen as the immortal that taunts the police or FBI. He’ll no longer be the nightmare who terrorizes women, haunting their lives. He’ll be revered as a mortal who died at the hands of a weak woman he failed to kill.
A woman who got lucky enough to kill him first.
Curious, I pull on a glove and check his pockets, finding a remote. Hmmm…
I look around, and spot what the remote goes to. There’s an out-of-place little contraption next to my fireplace. I’m fairly positive it’s a cell phone jammer. My phone was working before I came in, so he shut it on at some other time.
Putting the
remote back in his pocket, I stand to go to my cell phone. It was dropped within the first five seconds that he blindsided me. Sure enough, there’s nothing going on when I try to dial out. No signal.
Good. That gives me an excuse as to why I watched him bleed out for over thirty minutes—the same way he let his victims die.
I glance over my shoulder, a horror movie flashback hitting me, but he’s still dead. No disappearing act for the mortal who has drawn his last breath.
I return my gaze to my phone and carry it toward the couch. A normal girl wouldn’t notice a cell phone jammer—or even know what one was—so quickly after the traumatizing experience of killing a man.
I turn off the music, removing my iPod from the dock. Asshole.
I hate my things being touched by people. Now he’s gone and bled all over my floor too. It’ll take me forever to clean all that up.
I’d call him inconsiderate, but since I’m the one that sort of stabbed him, then I guess it’s my own fault. I should have let him run into the knife on the tile floor instead of the carpet.
Oh well. I can finally get that hardwood I’ve been considering. I usually don’t update my homes, but with Logan living somewhat close by, I’ve had more reasons to stay than go.
I wonder how long it’ll be before someone checks in on me. Or should I run and scream down the street? How does a normal person act after being attacked by a homicidal maniac and miraculously killing him by fluke?
Do they rock in a corner? Do they cry? I hope not. I can’t fake tears, and I don’t like rocking. Makes me nauseated.
Do I scream and pretend to be inconsolable or terrified? I don’t like screaming. Hurts my throat. And acting terrified will be hard to pull off, because…I can’t remember how to be afraid.
Obviously he wanted to rape me. I do remember how to feel after that. Numb. Broken. Suicidal. But that was much more than one man that brought me to that point.
It was much more than the rape that left me so broken.
So really, I guess I don’t know, which it doesn’t matter. He sure as hell never made it that far.
Do I act stunned or shocked? Do I show remorse even though he deserved to die? I’ll start laughing if I try to fake remorse for that sadistic piece of shit.
I may can pull off stunned or shocked. Maybe play it off like I haven’t been able to really wrap my head around the fact I just killed a guy?
Normal girls are hard to understand, because I can’t remember the last time I was normal. Normal girls spend too much time reacting to their actions. They take for granted the air they get to breathe, because they’ve never been deprived of those painless breaths.