OBSESSION
She died so easily.
Sure she fought. And I had a time getting her where I wanted. But when it comes right down to choking the life out of them, I’ve learned something. The line between death and life—that final breath—is painfully thin.
Frightening, this reality.
As before, the days leading up to it were intense. I was going about my business, then wham. Days ago the fabric called to me once more. It called with a need—no, a yearning. Reached deep down in the pit of me, rattling my chains.
This time I knew it would be different. And I couldn’t ignore it for long.
The call never comes at a good time. As if the fabric cares I have enough worries already. Family, friends, job. It seems to feed on these things, my daily challenges a sugar-water IV into its vein.
The yearning wouldn’t die. I wanted to break something.
Where did this thing inside me come from?
The killers in movies are too self-assured. Too well informed. They all seem to understand the “why.”
I understand nothing.
Logistical concerns terrify me. All the forensic details. DNA and fingerprints. A certain rare leaf stuck in my shoe. Victim’s hair on my shirt. These things can convict you. Send you to jail for life. Or death.
I should know.
In the past few days the yearning became unbearable. I would explode if I did not let it out.
When I was a kid I caught the end of my finger in a collapsible chair. It hurt so bad I thought I was going out of my mind. My mom finally took me to the doctor. He punctured a hole in my fingernail. Instantly all the pressure from the swelling was released. It was amazing. The pain went away so fast. I could function. I could breathe.
And that, you see, is what killing is like. A heart-swelling, mind-blowing relief. I can breathe again.
Usually.
But not this time.