I am quite exhausted of hearing the fact that men are serial killers. I mean, how often do we hear of a woman serial killer? Sure it has taken place in the past; however, names of serial killers that come to mind are Jack the Ripper — I love him, by the way — and Jeffrey Dahmer, the man who never let his murders go to waste. Ate them up, yummy. But, never does a woman’s name come to mind when one thinks of serial killers. There is, of course a reason for that. See, the old saying holds true. “Anything a man can do…a woman can do better.” Of course there are plenty of women serial killers out there! We just don’t get caught!
“My dear, I am so pleased you could make it to my home this afternoon. How did you find your way?” I ask the seventeen-year-old darling who sits uncomfortably upright in my kitchen chair. Her long blond hair is thick and reminds me of the yarn-haired dolls I mutilated as a child.
“Do you mean did I find my way here okay?” She adjusts herself in the chair. “Sorry, I didn’t quite understand the question.”
I lean forward in my chair, placing my face within two feet of hers. I breathe her in, filling my lungs to capacity. Flowers. She smells like fresh cut wild flowers, and my body begins to tingle with excitement. But I must control myself. “Yes, Dear, how did you find your way?”
“It was okay. I didn’t use GPS, if that’s what you mean. I did as you requested and picked up a map from the store and found my way here from that.” She smiles. “That’s the first time I’ve ever used a map. I won’t have any problems driving your child around while you are at work.”
“Oh good, good. And did you also leave your phone at home so you would not be tempted to use that GPS?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And where does your family believe you are right now?”
“At,” she pauses, her eyes slightly squint and her head tilts a little to the side, “a…a job interview.”
“Splendid, Dear, splendid, as right you are!”
She looks around the room a little more closely now. She even leans to her left to get a view of the family room. It, as is the kitchen, is spotless and filled with expensive furniture and beautiful, breakable artifacts. Dare I say, she looks a little…uneasy. Delicious.
“Where…” she starts. “Is the child I will be a nanny to here? I don’t… I don’t see any toys.”
My heart is beginning to race, and I feel slightly lightheaded from the rush that is beginning to flow through my body. Her pupils are growing larger, and her skin… Is it a shade lighter? Yes. “Oh, I keep everything in Jacob’s room. He’s sleeping in his crib right now. Through those doors.” I point to the double-entry door behind her. “Go see him, but shhhh, try not to wake him,” I say with my head tilting down in admiration of my “baby Jacob”. She looks uneasy, but stands and does as she is told. I follow with soft footsteps behind her.
The doors are silent as she opens them. A blue, boat-themed room is displayed before her. And in the middle, there is a white crib with a bundle of joy inside. Joy is in the heart of the beholder, after all.
An odor fills the room that was not there earlier. It is an odor that I am quite familiar with, yet not at all fond of. I am certain she must smell it too. She, however, will not be familiar with what the smell is. And, of course, she will be her most polite and not even mention it. Wonderful girl.
She looks back at me before approaching “Jacob” as if to get final consent to approach my love.
“Yes, Dear, go on. Go on!”
She quietly places her face over the crib, looking at the bundle below her. She can’t see his face, of course. Well, I know why she cannot see the face. There simply is not one. But she does not know that yet.
“I…I don’t see him. Is he in the blanket? I’m afraid he may be suffocating. I can’t see his face.”
“Oh, Dear, he is fine.” I give a slight chuckle. “But, please, feel better and remove the blanket from his face.”
“Oh no. If you think this is okay, I’m sure it is.”
“You had better move the blanket…just in case. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to little Jacob.”
She reaches into the crib and begins to tug at the wrapped bundle of blue and white striped cloth. And that is my cue to pull the blade from under the rocking chair cushion. I stand closely behind her. She is God awfully slow. She is a careful one, isn’t she? Then she stops. She does not move. I listen. I lean in closer and listen. She does not breathe. Yes, she sees what is in the cotton cover. The blood-stained, cotton cover. And there. There it is. Oh yes! Her scream. It makes me feel… And there it is again. Another scream. …so alive. I feel so alive. She turns and tries to run, but how can she with my knife in her chest? She tries to gasp, but she can’t breathe at the moment. Her eyes fill with fear. Tantalizing. I soak that in before pulling the blade from her. Hunched and trying to hold her blood in, she moves toward the door. I skewer her back, the knife sliding easily between her ribs, but grazing the bone just enough to feel the dull grind as I pull it back out. She screams. There, now she is breathing again. Good for her! She continues to hobble to the door. And I quickly slice through her soft flesh, anywhere–doesn’t really matter where–until she falls to the ground. Blood is everywhere, as though an artist has splash-painted red acrylic into a pattern only he understands. She has fallen and is nothing but a whimpering pile of blood-drenched flesh. She watches as I move toward her, her body no longer allowing her to do much else than stare up at me. I slice her wrist and watch the blood flow.
I don’t know if they are coherent at this point. Certainly in shock. But coherent? I’m not so sure, but I talk to her anyway.
“Got ya. Didn’t I? Everyone feels so safe when interacting with a woman. There is never a second thought about safety. Ever. You didn’t think about safety, did you? You silly, silly girl. You even left your phone behind. Something I’m quite certain you would not have done had I been a man. No one will ever trace you here now.” I pause. “How did you like the bundle in the crib, by the way?” I walk over and grab the decaying arm from the crib. “Do you recognize it? This arm?” Not that I expect her to answer. She just stares as I waive it “Hello” in front of her face. “It is your mother’s arm. Her interview was earlier this morning.” Her eyes glaze over. She is gone. Exquisite. That moment of departure is what I live for. I wonder if her mummy just pulled her to heaven. Who knows.
I guess the sexist fact that men have the stigma of being serial killers is a good thing. People trust me because I am a woman. Therefore, I am permitted do much more killing than they ever could. And because I am a woman, and so very clever, I will never get caught.
Written by Sheryl Marasi
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