Chapter 103

The majority of the poor girl's murder only came back to him by way of time. Once months went by, the nauseating days of his freedom stretching on, and on, he pieced together several images from the night he first made death; him, the craftsman, making death by hand. Her throat bulged under a tight grip of his clenching fists. She tried to grab him, poke at his eyes, but the force of his hands clamping into her skin and taking the breath out of her heaving lungs kept him safe from any real damage, save a couple scratches. He did not actually orgasm; all the same, his penis shot up erect and stiff like a great monolith against her and he pressed it to her, putting the entire weight of his body down on hers, crushing the clutching bits of life from her flailing, pathetic existence still trying to hold to this world.

From the start, he made a fine and thorough killer, an efficient machine created for the sole purpose of killing. Her body would never be found; it still sits buried, rotted