Page 4 of Lonely
What did she want?
A gust of wind lifted her skirt to reveal more of her thighs, and I couldn’t help but notice her smooth legs. Had our dress code always been this indecent? I made a mental note to have the receptionist review it.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as I rounded the vehicle.
“It’s a nice car you have,” she blurted, making me pause. “A classic red Beetle. 1963 model.”
I raised a brow, the door creaking as I opened it. “I didn’t take you for someone who likes classic cars.”
She ducked her head, her cheeks flushing, then unzipped her bag and rummaged for her key on the way to her Renault Clio.
“My father liked old cars.”
She pressed the key fob, and I studied her, trying to guess her tender age. The lady was young; that much I knew. Youth had a way of pulling you in, making you covet what you once took for granted.
Her hair was soaked now, but if the rain bothered her, she didn’t show it.
She opened the door and smiled at me over the roof.
“Have a safe drive.”
I narrowed my eyes as she slipped behind the wheel, tucking those shapely legs out of sight—legs my latest patient’s expressionless eyes had locked onto the moment she bent over my desk.
Irritation picked at my insides like an eagle with a roadside kill.
As she drove off into the distance, I glanced up at the estate’s large windows, sensing Carter’s presence within those walls. A crow took flight, circling the asylum while the others watched sleepily from their perch on the roof.
By the time I arrived home, it was dark.
The lone streetlight flooded through my vertical blinds and cast stripes across the floor as I stepped inside.
I switched on the light and tossed the car key into the bowl on the console table, then began my usual routine.
I waited dutifully in front of the microwave.
Long seconds passed before it finally pinged. Removing the tray, I cursed at how hot it was. When would I learn? The packaging clearly said to let it sit for a minute or two.
I ate my TV dinner at the small table. The food was bland, but that was to be expected. These cheap meals were either tasteless or far too salty.
Reaching for the salt, I shook out a generous amount and then placed it back down, ensuring it was perfectly aligned with the pepper shaker.
When I had finished eating, I tossed the container in the bin and headed to the bathroom. The saw was still where I’d left it, on the toilet seat, after rummaging through the cupboard beneath the sink and banging my head on the underside at least twice.
Careful not to trip over the man’s hairy, mottled legs, I stepped up behind him and grabbed a handful of his blonde hair. He’d been dead since the night before, after I injected battery acid into one of the prominent veins in his arm and watched him foam at the mouth as he convulsed. It had been so violent at one point that I’d had to hold him down.
Once he’d stopped twitching like a dead fish on land, I poured him a bath and spent hours meticulously cleaning his body, paying extra attention to his genitals.
Death was the most exquisite art. Even then, as I made the first cut, I marveled at the serrated blade biting deeper into his neck. It was a shame he wasn’t alive to witness the care and utmost respect I gave his body. But this private moment belonged to me, just as Carter’s thoughts belonged only to him.
There it was again, that irritation, intruding on this sacred task and making me gnash my teeth.
Tightening my grip on the saw, I forced my shoulders to relax and continued sawing.
My hands were soon slick with blood, but I held off on relieving the ache down below. Not yet. I ran my fingers through his hair and tugged on the fine strands, staining them crimson.
The head finally came free with a wet sound, and I paused my whistling as I dropped the saw into the bathtub. There was no need to rush. Time was on my side. No one at work would ask questions about a missing patient. They never did.
After placing the skull on the edge of the tub, where I usually kept the body wash, I hauled the rest of the body into the bath with a grunt.
