written by: Arlene Antoinette
I’m on the road to becoming a serial killer. The only question remaining is, how many must I kill to claim the title? It wasn’t difficult to start; the first had been an accident. Yea, there was some guilt with the first kill; even some remorse. The second kill was just as stressful, but I smiled after the third. Number four was a bit messy, he had been a big one. I try to stay away from the big ones now; it’s just too much clean up. Tonight, I’m hunting for victim number twenty. I’ve always had a thing for even numbers.
I leave at sunset. My victims tend to come out at night. I spot one staggering across the road, I swerve around him remembering my rule: keep away from the big ones. I don’t like unnecessary clean-up, it dulls the high. Make it quick, easy, and as close to splatter free as possible. That keeps my buzz hyped; satisfies that emptiness eating away at my insides.
I spot a potential target, a cutie lingering by the curb. I lift my feet from the gas pedal and lightly step on the brakes. With headlights off, I wait for him to take that first step. Within six pounding heartbeats, he’s on the blacktop. My foot jerks off the brakes and I press heavily onto the gas pedal.
The tires squeal as I go from zero to thirty in three seconds. He never makes it to the other side. There’s no scream as he’s mangled under my wheels. I don’t think about his squirrel mother or his squirrel baby sister; my car has developed a taste for blood, and so have I. In the distance two possums wonder out from between waist-high shrubs. With a nod of my head and a smile, I head off to numbers twenty-one and twenty-two. I like even numbers.