Flash Fiction – The Killer

“Well then-“

She’s still talking.

Still.

Talking.

Her mouth is moving and sound is coming out but I stop listening around the time she says the word email.

About the time I start thinking about an axe buried down the parting line of her hair.

About the time I start seeing the wild stupid look on her face as she tries to figure out what’s just happened and then falls back into her chair, mouth slack and open wide.

That’s when the screaming starts.

Shrieks that cause me to roll my eyes and raise myself up to become the harbinger of death.

The hell mouth opens, demons lurch forth and anyone who tries to stop the violent bloodshed is disintergrated.

Someone speaks and I snap out of my violent reverie.

I start to think about the logistics of things in the real world.

If murder was the path that I chose, how hard would it be to dispose of the body, that much body? How hard would it be to move? What could I use to dismember it?

What would I even use to kill in the first place? Would I want to make it look like something else, an accident? Frame someone? Or would I want the fact of foul play to be known? Want to grin when the papers printed my grisly crimes.

Would I get the taste for the kill and want it again?

Would it shock me to my senses, taking a life so violently? Because it would have to be violent wouldn’t it?

Poison is so dull.

I think it would be the former.

I’d get a taste.

I’d enjoy the thrill.

I’d become a serial killer.

Blood on my hands and bodies in the yard.

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