I killed him.
The senator isn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. There’s a satisfaction in this, yet it’s fleeting, similar to a flame that’s quickly put out. Dead and gone.
Like my victims.
Justice is a mistress that calls my name and pulls me into her embrace to fuck me. And leave me bereft. Empty. Wanting a closure I’ll never possess.
Rain falls in a light but steady stream, landing on every surface in the cemetery.
The grass.
The gravestones.
The faces of the mourners.
Precipitation collides with tears to stream down the cheeks of those viewing the casket. Sorrow is everywhere, permeating the atmosphere like a dense fog. I let it cover me, envelop me, bring me peace. It’s rare to feel this serenity. The funerals of my victims are one of the few places I experience this, which is why I always attend.
To complete the ritual…
End a life.
Give justice.
Begin again.
I sweep my gaze over the attendees, a sea of black amongst the green backdrop, an ink stain on an emerald field. They congregate, huddling together to provide and receive comfort, some weeping quietly while others sniffle loudly. All of them broken.
Except for one.
The very person who should be shattered stands tall. But not for lack of caring. No, she loves the deceased. Deeply. Each of her breaths is a challenge as if she’s being strangled, and she winces in pain every time her hazel eyes land on the mahogany casket.
Without a display of tears.
Not yet. But they all do eventually. Another part of the ritual I enjoy.
Although, I still can’t understand why people mourn evil. They should be relieved there’s one less murderous individual in the world. One less man who preys upon innocent women and children. I suspect it’s because they’re not aware of the vile acts their loved ones committed. If they did, they’d express fear, not sadness.
Calista Green is exquisite in her melancholy.
This woman is the perfect example of what a politician’s daughter should look like. Pristine and pressed clothes, flawless makeup, and her long, dark hair curled and piled atop her head in a way that accentuates the beautiful slope of her neck. What really sells the image is the string of pearls she wears, the ones she occasionally runs her fingers over to soothe herself.
As the only living relative, she’s my focus. Not because the woman’s young and attractive, although you’d have to be dead not to notice. Grave humor from me. How rare… and amusing.
Regardless of her beauty, Miss Green is the one I watch with bated breath, my chest rising and falling in time with hers, my body leaning forward whenever she moves. She’s the one I’m connected to at the moment.
There’s poetry, a sharp irony in taking the life of the man who’s responsible for the vitality flowing through her veins. Making her heart beat. The subtle flickering of her pulse along her throat snatching my attention again and again.
Most women are delicate, in need of protection. But only in the physical sense. Emotionally, they are more intelligent, more in tune with the feelings that tend to dominate their lives.
The same ones I’ve destroyed within myself.
Specifically, the soft, tender ones: adoration and compassion. Whether that’s caring for another, or even love. Whatever the name, they lead to weakness. Which results in pain and suffering.
And the arrival of darker emotions.
These are the ones in which I indulge, the ones that dictate my actions and fuel my ambition. Frustration. Anger. Disgust. Even desire, if it’s through selfish acts; the gratification of it, both mentally and physically.
These things I understand and control, lest they take over me—as they try to do on occasion.
I’m not a perfect man. Only my intentions are.
The pastor asks everyone to bow their heads in prayer and they do. Except for me. And her.
Miss Green simply stares ahead, unblinking, her gaze sparkling with thought, her eyes becoming crystalized honey. I continue watching her. Scrutinizing her. The longer I do, the more piqued my interest becomes.
What is she thinking about?
And where the hell are the tears?
The petition to an unseen deity ends, and everyone lifts their heads. A middle-aged woman, the former manager for the Green household, covers her face with both hands. Her round frame shakes from the force of her sobs. Real or fabricated, I’m unsure.
Miss Green doesn’t stop to question the authenticity of the tears. The young woman immediately embraces the older one, her full, pink lips whispering words of comfort while patting the housekeeper until the woman gathers her composure.
The pastor gestures to the casket, proposing everyone say their good-byes. The first man to walk over is the family’s driver. He takes his cap in hand and bows his head. His mouth moves briefly, clearly a man of few words, and then he’s stepping back.
Before he can blend in with the crowd, the senator’s daughter walks up to him and takes his hand. She gives the man a smile—a sad one, but a smile nonetheless—and says something that has the driver’s shoulders straightening with pride. The interaction between them is familiar, comfortable.
I squint, not bothering to hide my skepticism. No one can see me at this distance, but I find myself wanting to get closer. It goes against my rules to get near my victim’s loved ones, so I don’t. However, rules don’t stifle my want. My need to examine things more in depth in order to gain understanding.
Miss Green perplexes me.
She is the person most devastated by the senator’s death, yet she’s the one offering comfort instead of receiving it. And not just to anyone, but the staff. People she shouldn’t acknowledge unless it’s with a task for them to carry out.
I’ve met many men and women who come from the upper class, and none of them have a personal relationship with those on their payroll. They believe it’s beneath them. A financial division that’s been around since money and status became prominent in human culture.
But not to Miss Green.
She treats each individual like a person of worth.
It’s confounding… and refreshing. If it’s real.
I don’t believe her to be sincere. A funeral is the perfect excuse for a woman to gain sympathy and attention. For her to shine in the spotlight and be adored for simply being. Perhaps this is why she hasn’t cried yet.
Miss Green is preparing her stage.
That is something I understand and have witnessed on numerous occasions. She’ll be no different than the others. Just like she wears those pearls, she’ll wear selfishness disguised as grief.
So, I wait.
My anticipation grows with every person who walks up to the casket. They leave shortly after, but not without the dutiful daughter greeting them farewell, a lily in her hand that she clutches like a lifeline. The rain falls harder and faster, scattering the mourners like a flock of ravens, the group quickly disappearing.
Until one person remains.
Miss Green stands there, a stoic expression etched in her features. Her hair, drenched by the rain, drips water onto her already soaked clothing. She doesn’t move for a long while, despite the storm, despite the lack of audience.
Her continued stillness draws me, pulls me toward her. I adjust the collar of my coat to shield my face and gradually make my way in her direction. To a passerby I look like someone visiting the deceased. On any other day, that would be true.
I have mourned.
Once.
My steps bring me close enough to see the woman’s bottom lip trembling, now tinged with blue due to the cold. Miss Green wraps her arms around her middle, flower still in hand, and sinks to the ground with a small cry of anguish.
Finally, the tears come.
She tilts her head back, her pale throat an offering, making my fingers twitch. Eyes shut and lips parted, the woman sobs. I don’t possess empathy, but if I did, I’d be gutted at hearing such a forlorn sound.
Even so, there’s a strange tightness in my chest.
It intensifies the longer she cries, the more tears she sheds.
There is no audience, no performance to be had. Just a daughter mourning the loss of her parent. In private.
Miss Green waited until she was alone to properly grieve, a revelation I didn’t see coming. Her behavior is a deviation from the norm.
Disappointment surges along with confusion, and my brows furrow. For the first time, the joy I receive from funerals has vanished.
My satisfaction has been thwarted.
And replaced with an uncomfortable sensation that I refuse to name. Something I shouldn’t be capable of.
It’s there nonetheless.
Miss Green is the cause of this.
I run my gaze over the woman as she gets to her feet and slowly makes her way to the casket, grass and mud stains on her clothes and legs. Her perfect image is no more. The lily in her right hand shakes from the tremors wracking her body, dislodging raindrops that are quickly replaced by the storm. And her tears.
She brokenly whispers something I can’t make out and kisses the flower’s petals before placing it on the mahogany surface amongst the other blooms. Then she walks to the vehicle idling by the curb. I watch until she climbs inside and disappears from sight.
Then I head toward the casket. Peering down, I squint in disdain at the man hidden within, my lip curling. “You caused pain before and after your death. If I could kill you again, I would.”
Reaching out, I trail my fingers over the lily that Miss Green held so tightly, the soft texture how I imagine her skin would feel. I pick it up and press my lips to the petal where she did moments ago, inhaling deep. The fragrance of the bloom fills my nostrils, along with the scent of the woman who now invades my thoughts.
She’s a mystery
A problem.
One that I intend to solve and be rid of. No matter the cost. Or else the price I’ll pay will be my sanity—what little still remains.
