Someone Else

When her latest victim comes back from the dead, a killer struggles to maintain a grip on reality. Contains content which may offend.

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Her hand, warm and soft, ran gently down his chest to the top of his hip. It almost tickled, but sent an electric pulse of feeling to his heart as it quickened and his breathing deepened. Their eyes met and pupils dilated. The tenderness seemed to slow time while they stared into each other.

She sat on his face.

Moans and bursts of high pitch, vocal breath intensified as the world was forgotten. Her head was thrown upward, her back arched as his tongue, light but firm, curled around her.

“Smut!” she yelled. “This isn’t fucking sexy.”

She stood up quickly with the apparent intent to cross the room to the door. Breathing heavily with venom etched on her face, she turned abruptly back to the shocked, simpering young man lying on her bed. He was looking at her, hurt and confused.

“You’re pathetic,” she replied in disgust to his quizzical look.

“What? What are you talking about? I thought you’d like it. Maybe if we just…” He trailed off, a pleading look growing on his face.

He stopped and half-laughed, hoping she would crack and smile too and reveal her reaction to be a joke. She stared back at him, coldness emanating from her soul, slashing his romantic hopes. He had no idea what was going on in her head now.

Fear built in his heart. She was not looking at him the way a lover would. Her gaze was fixed, unmoving, calculating, like a cat above an injured bird, both sure of what’s about to happen. He cowered from her just a touch, eyes widening, too afraid of saying the wrong thing to speak. She bristled, breathing a deep breath of self-indulgent ecstasy. She knew she had him. The slightest twitch of her cheek and she could smile, putting his mind to rest, or scowl and continue to intensify the situation.

The power she had over him rushed through her, fluttering her heart with a suppressed groan. She was done. Only one thing left to do with this boy, she thought.

She smiled and stepped towards him. Bending forward, one of her hands pushed him down onto the bed; the other out of sight.

The sheets are old, stains won’t matter. His eyes are already closing expecting a kiss. Her heart was hammering. She closed in on his face, bringing her hidden hand up to his neck.

A cold, hard and flat something pushed against his throat, snapping his eyes open. With shock and fear rolling over him, he tried to speak.

“Wha–”

He was quelled by the scorn on her face. He knew he must be silent, that this tension could not be broken.

“Shhhhh,” she hissed in his ear. “Everything is going to be alright. Just close your eyes and put your head back.”

She pushed his forehead with hers, but he resisted. His one mistake she knew he’d make.

“You know what I said I’d do if you ever disobeyed me,” she said, mouth curling into an evil smile of giddy excitement. “And now is the time at last.”

“No–” He tried to sit up, but couldn’t even finish a word before he felt the cold steel slice his throat with greater ease than he could have expected.

She grasped his hair and pulled back his head allowing the blood to beat fountain-like arcs over them. This was her sex; her gushing orgasm of brilliant death.

She had him fixed with an insane smile. He had made her happy, allowed her to drain all her stress through his blood. The least she could do was smile, let him know he had made her happy. It was, after all, exactly what he wanted. He wanted to make her happy and this made her happy. How was this not what we both wanted? she reasoned with herself, staring through his eyes. Still there was life; just holding on to the last moment.

His features seemed to ask why she had done this to him, his eyes locked on hers. Then he was still.

“Oh, you marvellous boy,” she crooned at his now corpse. “I’m floating. That was perfect. You really are the best I’ve ever had.”

She stretched her arms around him, hugging his lifeless body happily. A couple of days like this, then I’ll move him. He deserves a few days rest at least. She closed her eyes, smiling at the warm sensation as the blood pooled against her thigh. She clutched the back of his shirt and spoke to him as the lover she’d imagined.

“What a great day we’ve had, I’m so glad we can finally talk openly…”

“What?” replied a dead voice.

She froze.

“Talk openly? Perhaps you could start by explaining why you killed me.”

Her control of the situation shattered. Eyes wide and fixed, afraid of what she would see, she pulled back her head to look in the face of her victim. She felt a light, wet pop on her cheek as it separated from the dripping red of his chest. Sliding into focus, the body was still and unmoving. She laughed to herself, although still uneasy.

I can’t crack up now. She felt dazed. At least, not until I’m rid of all the evidence. Hearing that voice was definitely not part of any plan she had. She looked around the room but nothing had moved.

“I’m in your head.” The voice laughed.

Sheer panic engulfed her and cold sweat beaded on her forehead. No, I’ve completely lost it. I’m imagining voices. This isn’t real!

“What is real?” continued the laughing voice. “I’m real to you, so as far as you should be concerned, I am real.”

“I’m not listening to you,” she said aloud with a withering smile. She forced her eyes shut and thrust herself back toward the body on the bed, grasping at it, looking for security.

I shouldn’t have killed you so soon, she thought, then caught herself. No! This was the plan, no doubts now or the voices will get worse. Why now? Why so soon after the release? It always takes days before I get these kind of thoughts. Maybe the last one messed with me. But how? It was perfect. Every time was perfect.

“So, was my death perfect?”

She screamed. The voice was so clear, so real she could almost feel his breath on her neck.

Jumping through several levels of shock, she launched herself across the bed, scrambling backwards onto the floor. Staring in horror, her head twitched as she peered up at the body of her last boyfriend. Dead but moving.

He sat up.

“Nothing is perfect, so how can my death be perfect? Unless my death was nothing, but then how can I be dead? Am I dead?” He spoke feverishly fast, looking down but eyes casting around. They fixed on hers as he spoke the last question.

Her mouth hung ajar. Perplexed. Transfixed. It took a few moments for her thoughts to catch up to what she was experiencing.

He’s sitting up. I’m insane. This isn’t real. He’s talking. My reality’s broken. He’s soaked in blood. I killed him. He’s looking at me. I watched him die. He’s still moving. He’s waiting for me. She listed the odd occurrences paralysing her, like an old system rebooting through diagnostic mode.

“What?” she said blankly, face impassive.

“Am I dead?” he repeated, staring at her intently.

She thought for a moment, wondering how he didn’t know what had just happened. “Do you want to be?” she asked, evenly.

“I don’t know,” he said, just as measured. “Do you?”

Her eyes widened and breath quickened. “No.”

“Neither do I.” He scowled as he lifted a hand to his neck.

She held her breath as it approached the area of evidence. What is he going to do when he realises I killed him?

The idea of stabbing him again crossed her mind. That didn’t work the first fucking time. She laughed to herself almost imperceptibly, but the corner of her mouth twitched. His hand was on his throat, then he smiled.

“For a moment there I thought you’d killed me, I guess I just imagined it.” He sat back down in the bloody sheets, not noticing them.

How is everything back to normal? I just fucking killed him. Is this my conscience or something, am I just imagining the blood or what? Her confused thoughts must have shown on her face because he continued.

“Are you alright?” He looked concerned.

“Am I alright?” she repeated, in shock.

He scowled slightly, but waited.

“Yes.” She breathed, trying to gather her thoughts. I guess I’m going to have to just wing this one. Certainly interesting though, right? Never had someone come back to life on me before.

Dazed, but processing events again, she put her unnatural, insane smile back on her face and stepped towards him again.

“What’s wrong with your face?” he asked bluntly.

“My face?” A stab of annoyance flashed through her as she continued to think to herself. Did he just say there’s something wrong with my face? He’s never said anything like that to me before. He should think my face is fucking perfect. How dare he!

“Yeah, it looks all crazy.”

She stared bewildered, no idea what to say. Fucking crazy? What the fuck is going on here? Have I lost all control? She steadied herself. First things first, what does he know?

“Who do you think I am?” she asked slyly.

“You’re Sarah, my girlfriend, obviously.” He seemed confused at the question.

My name’s not fucking Sarah. She glowered at him. He forgot my name. I’m gonna get him back for that. But I already killed him, how can I get him back worse than that? Does he not know who I am anymore? For fuck sake, who is Sarah? What’s he talking about? Is he still the same person?

“And what’s your name?” she asked slowly, but realising she seemed suspicious, sped up. “What’s our relationship like? You find me controlling, right?”

“What? Sarah, you know my name. Are you breaking up with me or something? And what do you mean you’re controlling? I don’t think that at all!” An angry expression crossed his face as he spoke, cowering her. “Are you messing with me?”

She would never allow someone who might get angry with her into the house. She had to have perfect control there; her sanctuary. She would never have let anything go wrong, but this was weird. Her safe illusion disappeared and all she could think was how powerless she now felt. What does he want?

“It’s fine,” she said. “A moment of… confusion.” She cast her eyes about the floor, pretending to think then looked back up at him.

He was still dripping blood, but didn’t seem to notice. She peered carefully into his eyes, head leaning forward, trying to detect a lie, or any clue at all for that matter. All she saw, however, was the same man she’d seen every day this week; only now he was covered in blood.

I must have gone insane. How can he be alive after what I did? Either I imagined killing him, I’m imagining him having come back to life, or I imagined him entirely and I’ve never actually ever killed anyone. Or he’s a ghost or some kind of supernatural thing that’s here to mess with me. Or make me mess with myself. Or he knew what I was going to do and got an amazingly well-done latex neck, and he’s just messing with me now. Maybe he’s a robot and the real guy is standing outside my door controlling it or something. Maybe we’re all robots. No, I can’t let these paranoid thoughts in now, the situation is already weird enough. I’ll just ask him. How do I phrase it?

She appraised him sternly, but drew no real conclusions. “Are you insane?” she asked, looking gormless before closing her mouth.

“Yes,” he replied with bright eyes, smiling playfully.

“Okay, good–” She stopped, realising what he had said. Wait, that doesn’t actually make this situation any easier to follow. She kneaded her head with her hands. “Fuck it, I’m your girlfriend.” She deciding to play along until she understood.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, clearly thinking she was in real distress now.

She looked him in the eyes and saw how much he cared for her. Her heart melted. No one had ever looked at her like this. She had never trusted anything that looked her in the eye until now. Is this love? She broke eye contact, looking down at her feet, mortified at her own thoughts.

“I really need a hug,” she mumbled.

A few seconds passed where the atmosphere seemed to solidify and she couldn’t move or even breath.

She let him pull her into his arms.

This isn’t actually all that bad. She smiled. I don’t even feel the urge to kill him. Maybe this is the relationship that can work. She closed her eyes as she felt him position his head so his mouth was next to her ear. He’s actually going to say something sweet to me, this is so special. Her smile widened. This is actually perfect. No more death. No more plans. No more being left alone.

His voice fell through her. “I know you killed me. You have no love.” He stepped back, smiling. “I’m just messing with you.”

Chris Shepherd is new to the wider writing community in Thanet, writing songs, poems and short stories.

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