#FICTION - Serial Killer Fantasy Camp for Wayward Boys

NEW FICTION 
SERIAL KILLER FANTASY CAMP
FOR WAYWARD BOYS

 
“If you were held prisoner and couldn’t avoid being killed, which serial killer would you choose to do it? You can pick from any throughout history. Hannibal. Jack the Ripper. Dexter. It’s like fantasy football, but fun.”
           
I check my reflection in the camera’s mini display screen before continuing.
           
“It seems you had a reaction to Dexter. Your eyes moved or am I just imagining it. You want a Dexter ending? Like you saw on television? I can make that happen. Just say the words.”
           
Silence.
           
“Allow me to continue. I could disembowel you, Hannibal style and ask at just the right moment, “Bowels in or bowels out like Judas.”
           
Still and only silence.
          
“You’re not amused? Not even a little? I’m sorry. I will continue with our tour though madmen over the centuries. Would you prefer a classic? I can wear a Jack the Ripper mask if that will make you feel more comfortable. Does the thought of being killed by a woman ruin the fantasy? I do apologize. I promise to do my best to entertain even with my limitations. You know, being a woman serial killer and all.”
           
My phone beeps and flashes with incoming messages and email. I press the buttons on the side and hold until the screen powers off.
           
“I’m sorry about that interruption. How rude. We don’t want that. Where were we – the classics. Yes, I’ll stay with male serial killers. Whenever I mention Aileen Wuornos or other female killers, men lose interest. I can see it in their eyes. No! I don’t want to be killed by no damned woman. Get me a real damn killer like Ted Bundy or Richard Ramirez. Fine. You want the Jeffrey Dahmer ending? Men *always* demand the Dahmer ending. Tedious if you ask me, but this is your fantasy camp after all.”
           
Standing, I stretch my limbs before reaching a hand beyond the camera. Searching, my hand finds a face and I get a fingernail under the tape covering the mouth. Yanking my arm up, I rip the duct tape from the man’s mouth.
           
Screams fill the room. This is always my favorite part. The screams.
           
The screams continue and he bucks against the restraints, but it’s futile. I’ve been wrapping these men tight to the table Dexter style for years. He’s going nowhere, I can assure you.
           
I push the camera aside so the man can see my face.
           
“Stop screaming. Stop. You sound hysterical. You need to stop and tell me the ending you want. It’s the rules. You must follow the rules. Why pay all this money to take part in my fantasy camp if you don’t want to play the right way? This isn’t okay. Now, pull yourself together. Stop acting like a sniveling shit and *tell* me what ending you want.”
           
The man tries to compose himself but continues blubbering. Men always ruin these moments if you let them. I slap his face a few times. Hard.
           
“Snap the fuck out of it you little bitch.”
           
To my surprise he stops crying immediately, arms going still at his sides.
           
“Dexter,” he manages after some time.
           
I close my eyes and smile. Finally, he chose. After all this time, I can begin.
           
I walk to my desk to retrieve my phone. Tapping at the screen, I open the music player app and being my playlist.
           
“There’s this song I like to play to get me in the mood.”
           
Only Girl in the World by Rihanna blares thru the speakers. I twirl and dance and make my way towards the bed. His eyes follow me, fear forcing tears down the side of his face. I sing to him
           
“You can come inside (yeah)
And when you enter, you ain’t leaving
Be my prisoner for the night, ooh.”
 
I stop by the side of the bed and lean close to his face. Pressing my mouth against his ear so he’ll hear me over the music, I scream, “I’m sorry. But I lied. You’re not getting the Dexter ending. I want to tell you all about my routine. I’m so proud of it. After years and years, it’s almost perfect.”
           
I tap my phone to change the song. It’s Landslide by Fleetwood Mac.
           
“I want to talk about the woman you raped and murdered.” There’s a tear in my eye and I wipe at it with my elbow. “She was a mother. An artist. A wife. A piano player. And you took it from her.”
 
“Oh mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?”
 
“I’ll never get over it, what he did to me. I could have had any dad in the world but instead I had him. I can think of many troubled broken men that would have been an upgrade. Darth Vader had one good moment of redemption in a life of evil murder, that would have been preferable to my father.”
The song ends and the final one begins. Tears stream down my face.

“I remember the day mother died. It began for real immediately after the funeral…”
 
“Peace through pain is precious
‘Specially when it’s done by you
Itching is the pulse inside
Creeping up to come alive
It’s just doing what
It’s gonna do.”
 
I don’t know how my knife got into my palm, but the entire world erases and I’m alone inside my mind. The song pounds in my brain and the image of my father rises like a zombie in my brain.

“No. It’s not going to happen anymore,” I scream and plunge the blade into his side. Blood spurts from the wound, splashing my hand with sticky hot wetness. Hand covered with blood; I pull my hair from my face so I can make eye contact with him.
“I have the best doctor I could hire in the other room ready to keep you alive. You’re going to get the ending you deserve.”
Yanking the knife from his body, I wipe it on the sheets.
           
The screaming begins again, his voice cracking in agony.  
           
I’ll watch this scene on video tonight when I’m alone. Whiskey and weed and this man’s endless screaming.
           
But there will be no mercy. And he won’t die today or quickly. This has just begun. I turn to him, trying to get his attention through the screams and thrashing. He can’t focus so I simply walk from the room.
           
The doctor waits on the other side for me. Without a word, I motion for the doctor to tend to the prisoner. The doctor rushes from me, glad to be out of my presence I’m sure. He’s not one of my toys. He’s far too useful for that. And that’s more than I can say for most men.
           
My phone beeps. It’s Ana.
           
“Well, is he still alive?”
           
Instead of answering, I send her the video from my phone.
           
A few minutes later I receive another text.
           
“Very good young Padawan. You’ve graduated to the next level. Perhaps you’re ready to confront Darth Vader after all. I’ll see you tonight, my love. Kisses and murder. Always, Ana.”
           
I close my eyes and smile. “It’s gonna be martinis and madness tonight. I can just feel it. Do join us for dinner, friends. It will be to die for…promise.
           
​Sunday night dinner at Holden Farms. 8PM. Arrive hungry and ready to be entertained.”