I’ll never get used to waking up next to someone after a night of drinking and not being able to remember their name, or how we met, or why they’re dead. This one’s staring up at the ceiling like it’s the answer to everything, or some shit. Throat all open and leaking. The colour is quite beautiful. On the bright side, though, I’m getting good at hiding the bodies.
Detective Smithson stared at the case file, another missing person he would never find. The pile of cases was too big, and the leads too small. The worst part was that Smithson was sure he knew who was responsible. Some brat from the south side. Witnesses placed him at three of the disappearances. But it was damn hard to convict someone of murder when you never had a body.
Lie still and don’t even breathe. Your eyes are closed but you can feel him watching you. Don’t move. Don’t take a breath. You smell blood and you know it’s yours. You can feel it, hot and sticky, on your neck. He drops you in a shallow grave and piles dirt on top. Don’t move when it hits your face. Stay still and he’ll never know you’re not dead.