The only inhabitant was the one I’d left there. I played the beam of my flashlight over her face. Naked, she lay curled on her side on the floor against the back wall, her hands cuffed behind her back and fastened to a pipe. Her eyes and nose had leaked all over the duct tape on her mouth, the tears and snot drying to a cracked white film on her skin. Blood crusted across the wounds on her thighs. The puddle of urine had dried to a brown stain on the concrete.

I was definitely done with her.

Over the mess on her face, her gaze still pleaded. But as I stood in the doorway, truth overtook the faint glimmer of hope and stomped it into the ground.

She knew this was it.

Dropping the bag at my feet, I knelt and pulled out the knife. Moving behind her to avoid the initial gush, I raised the weapon. She slid sideways, making the angle difficult.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” I said, though secretly wishing she would do just that.

I reached for her chin to hold her head and neck still. She thrashed hard for someone dehydrated and weak. After the last experience, I’d only allowed ten minutes for the actual death. But she fought considerably harder than my first, using her bound legs as a counterweight to fling her body sideways.

I stepped on her head to pin it to the concrete. She twisted, but my weight immobilized her. I slashed the knife across the stretched, white skin of her neck. A low moan seeped from her lips as blood spurted in even pulses across the concrete. Her body twitched; fear clouded her eyes.

I moved my foot from her head. Her eyes met mine. Life faded from her gaze slowly, as if her soul clung with desperate fingertips to its physical embodiment.

I had caused this. I was in control. A strange and powerful surge of energy flooded me. This was a proper climax. No failure, no disappointment. I watched the blood drain until her chest deflated and her opaque, dead eyes lost focus, all because of me.

Note to self: the will to live is variable, and adequate time must be allowed even if it might not always be needed.

But what if the killing took longer? How would that feel? To draw out the experience, to watch the panic flutter in her pupils? What if she begged for death and I withheld it?

All interesting questions that could be explored at another time. For now, I’d stick to my predetermined schedule. But maybe I could experiment a little with the next one.

After carving the spiral on her abdomen, I lined up the rest of my supplies. Paper, kindling, gasoline, matches. Right on schedule. Paying close attention to detail, I proceeded to the next step.

CHAPTER 17

17