Nicky Shearsby

Chapter 1. The Others

I can loiter in the darkness for hours, undeterred, unencumbered, just watching, nothing more—waiting for an opportunity to change a supposed innocent life forever. It is a gratifying, albeit disconcerting emotion, despite a painful truth my feelings are of little concern to The Others. They do not appreciate I find it difficult to express emotions when left alone, when the silence of the night is all I have for company I probably do not deserve. Innocent. The very word amuses me, implicating some blameless act these people believe they have played no part in creating. I can assure you there is nothing blameless about any of this. I glance around. Most of the lights in nearby buildings have long been turned out, heedless dwellers already in their beds. It is a shame they are unaware of the malingerer in the shadows beyond, a deep slumber able to locate them with ease.

I take a breath. The cool air is refreshing against my algid skin, a light breeze brushing over me—nothing more than an old friend it is pleased to see. I appreciate, of course, my lingering position may look sinister to those who do not know me, know of my need, my very presence left to the wild uncertainty of a failing world that has, too often, failed me. Yet, this is the time of day I enjoy the most, when I leave the supposed safety of my home, venturing into the night towards potential acquirement most will never have the capacity of mind to understand—personal appeasement something I need. I am, in fact, misunderstood, although such a concept has been savagely misinterpreted, leaving me mostly forgotten in a world that will never really know who I am.

No matter. I am here now, a willing participant, able to achieve my goals with ease, this night more than capable of providing me with the gratification I desperately desire. I am standing in a prolific part of Eastcliff, beyond normality, beyond the veil of accepted society, hidden from view behind several dustbins—rats the only creatures willing to share this foul space with me. I do not mind. These innocents have far more in common with me than those deranged animals already intoxicated and violent within the heated walls of downtrodden buildings around me—humanity wholly capable of shunning what they cannot possibly understand.

Yet only those in search of self-gratification venture to this degenerate location—men with urgent needs, females in need of critical financial gain. It is precisely why I am here now. Not for sexual enjoyment, you understand, but to satisfy a personal urge I have been unable to sedate for a long time. It is an impulse few sane people will ever understand. I take a breath, several females pacing the quiet roads behind me, their overbearing perfumes blending with their overrated mannerisms, their heels clicking impatiently: this moment perfect for the picking. I need to choose—choose and dissect, if you excuse the expression. Yet which one? The tall, slim framed wretch with boots that disappear to her thighs; the older, more accomplished one of her trade; or the petite, nervous young thing who appears out of her prevailing depth?

I smile, wetting my lips, the decision made as I step from my hiding place into the cool, fresh air, my body confident in its pending mission. My shoes beat the pavement in time with my heart, my body in sync with the tune of the night. I smile, she smiles, simple pleasantries exchanged. She asks what I want. I ask what she offers. All the time my heart is pounding, threatening to expose my desires with exorbitant force. We leave that location together, my hand on the small of her back, her scent overpowering—this victim unappreciative of my true intentions. No one questions my motive, those around us in search, it seems, of the very same thing.

I do not talk much during our short journey, grateful this young girl does not expect conversation. She expects to be fucked, swiftly, her limited time with me paid for in full by the appearance of several carefully counted banknotes placed into clammy palms that have seen much action already this evening. Polite conversation is not required, not expected. Our time together is purely transactional. The simple truth is that I cannot speak because if I do, I will not hold back, poisoned words allowed to spill from my tongue like acid, capable of burning through the most solid of objects. Only my pending goal keeps me motioning forward, the anticipation of what is coming, most appealing.

I park out of the way, far beyond the town’s edge and potential watchful eyes, along a narrow lane towards a desolate location I know and love well. I have grown rather fond of the isolation this ruined building provides, the solace I can therefore claim with ease. The female does not question my choice as she climbs from my car into the darkness, awaiting payment for services she believes will be swift. She has no idea. She turns, opens her mouth to speak, yet I am already a step ahead (forgive the expression), my hand covering her mouth. The stench of stale tobacco procures what her perfume fails to disguise, her hair in need of a wash—foul sweat still lingering on her body from the last male who grunted himself into her in the fumbling dark.

She struggles, but I am quicker, bringing my free hand to the back of her neck, a simple incision rendering her immobile. My blade is fast, slicing deep, severing her spinal cord, the oncoming paralysis entirely unexpected. With eyes set wide, she falls against my awaiting arms as I lower her to the ground below. I smile, more a grimace, my sinister appearance unanticipated. I cannot help it. She cannot move, cannot speak, tears already spilling from terrified eyes that cannot see the reasons behind her forthcoming demise. I know what she wants to say, of course. Why me? Yet, my excitement ensures I cannot answer. Instead, I remain smiling, focused now on removing her clothing, her arms and legs compliant as I unbutton garments, sliding underwear freely from her body. I remove her shoes, jewellery, a plastic hair clip that breaks beneath my grip, placing them inside polythene bags that I seal and discard in the boot of my awaiting car.

I do not wish to partake in sexual activity. My needs are far greater, this moment more important than mere acts of carnal pleasure. Besides, I do not find the female form attractive, especially wretches of this calibre. Her naked body is no more inviting to me than a freshly slaughtered pig. She has no choice but to lie still, of course, her spinal cord damaged, my hand still pressed over her trembling mouth to prevent unwitting, unwanted outbursts.

She gags and convulses, an unexpected moment occurring when the creature vomits into my palm. I do not wish for her to choke to death, her full attention required whilst I perform my duties. I need her to witness this act, appreciate the beautiful art I only dare practice in the dark. I pull my hand away, disgusted, disgruntled by remnants of her last meal that spill from her lips, her continued choking infuriating. I reach forward, slap her across the face, my hand now in need of clean water, a towel to wipe away this unrequited bodily fluid. She has wet herself, too. I know this by the stench of urine, the dampness between her legs threatening to soil my own. I have never understood the workings of the human body, functionality often lost to the concept of terror.

I take a sawn-down broom handle from my car. It is nothing special, the thing adequate enough for the job as I drive it firmly inside her. The sound she makes is somewhat amusing. She has sex for money, every night, the filthy whore no better than a street dog. So why is she not moaning with assumed pleasure now? I ram it hard, force it deep, only prepared to stop when blood pours along my wrist, spitting from her terrified mouth in unison. That is deep enough, I think. The victim gags blood and vomit across her cheeks, her body succumbing to my heinous act, the disgusting creature almost passed out. Her anus will be next. Had she been male, this would be more appealing, yet she is neither appealing nor inviting as I drive my wooden length inside her once more. Another involuntary yelp, this time accompanied by a strangled groan, more blood trickling from her trembling lips. She has bitten her tongue, too, almost clean off. Oh, dear. What a shame.

I take a moment, composing myself, ready to bring my scalpel to her belly. The sound of flesh peeling open as I slide the sharp blade along her skin is alluring, my heart quickening, my head light. She cries out again, knowing she is done for, yet her irksome outburst is distracting, forcing me to hit her across the temple with the very handle coated now with sticky blood. The strike is hard enough to knock her unconscious. Damn it. No matter. Instead, I take a breath, losing myself in the act of opening her up, exposing her insides as I pull out organs, slicing them free from their unwanted positions, carefully cutting each breast from her now ravaged body that I place inside previously prepared sterilised jars. She will be dead soon enough. Blood loss is entirely normal. I check for tattoos, those things an identifiable marker, wiping my blade carefully across my sleeve before cutting thickened pieces of skin from her body and placing them inside more jars for later assessment.

Cutting into flesh is far easier than removing limbs; hence I always leave such an exhausting act until last. Once I am certain she is dead, several organs now placed mockingly across her bloody corpse, I move on to the action of removing her teeth and hands. Both can identify her, and whores should never be identified. They are not worthy of such privilege. I slam my blood-soaked handle forcefully into her jawbone, breaking every tooth from her head with relative ease. These, too, I save, remove from the scene, removing her features in the process. It is almost poetic.

Hands are attached via tendons and bone, a saw blade required for this act. Unfortunately, my instrument is not as sharp as I would like, and I am forced to hack and chop rather than carefully slice. The deed is done, my night complete. I simply need to leave this place, go home, wash myself head to toe in bleach, burn any offending item that might link back to this moment—a moment that will live forever in my mind, if nowhere else.

I stand in the darkness afterwards, the corpse at my feet. I have done the world a great service by removing this whore from their midst. Women like this should never be allowed freedom of movement, either by day or by night. I sigh. As much as I love this location, it is irritating that dog walkers often frequent these parts, a simple, early morning stroll holding the potential to see me caught in the very act I enjoy more than anything else in the world. A distant bark, a rumbling voice carried against the breeze. I have no time left to complete my mission, required to retrieve my trophies and drive into the night, the body left to its unnatural, unfortunate fate.

I close my eyes. The Others are close now, whispering into the looming darkness, the surrounding trees eagerly calling my name. They often whisper in the shadows when no one else can hear. They talk to me, tell me their deepest secrets, my history bound in shared suffering from which I can never escape. It is regretful. Still, I am what I am, no chance of changing such a terrible truth about the man forever hidden in the blackened gloom of a damaged world. We are, after all, bound together by circumstance and time. Everything we do, everything we have ever been now forms a unique bond few people will understand. It is a shame, I know. It doesn’t matter.