[Keledae]: 811.Short Story.Double Vision

It was the thing he'd always loved about her. The way she always walked past him as though he didn't exist. Her jeans quietly swishing in time to the sway of her thighs, the way the light flooded her hair, making it shine and bounce. She was a vision. Perfection from the deep chocolate locks to the size 6 1/2 patent leather heals. In a just moment she would turn and pretend to be surprised to see him, flashing that movie star smile that always took his breath away. He would give her a half smile and a nod in return, she would wave, perfectly manicured nails shining in the fluorescent lighting. Oh yeah. She was a vision.
He sighed as she hugged her husband. Savoring the moment, knowing it would be her last embrace. Knowing it was him she would spend the rest of her life with. The poor bastard she was kissing, full on the mouth, completely clueless. She had such full, luscious lips. He could practically feel them pressing against his, slightly open, her sweet breath in his mouth. He finished his beer, took one long look at her and walked out of the bar. It was only a matter of hours now, it was only a matter of waiting.
He knew they were regulars at the bar, they always followed the same pattern; arrive at 8:30, drink till 11, fight at 11:15. She would storm out alone and he would be waiting to receive her. To take her away from the pain that her husband caused her. He would relish her life and she would take comfort in him. Their time together would be filled with divine hours, and he laughed as he thought of her husband finishing his drink and following her out to complete the pattern, only to find that she was gone, forever. The woman that the man had loved once, that he loved still, that he had hurt, driven away, that he would have eventually changed his ways for, the woman that could have saved him, gone. A smile spread over his face as he pictured it. First the rage, then the confusion, the sadness. So much decadent emotion. He checked his watch. Ten till eleven. He slowly paced to the shadow on the side of the bar and leaned casually against the corner. In mere minutes, she would be his.
He heard her heels, clicking fast on the floor before the door flew open and she rushed out, hair flying unchecked behind her, tears trailing mascara down her cheeks. Her delicate hands balled into white knuckled fists. She paused to catch her breath and he stepped out of the shadows.
"It's ok." his voice was deep with concern as he spoke to her. He head snapped up in his direction, her eyes full of anger and fear before they softened in recognition. She sobbed harshly and ran to him, enveloping him in her arms, her sent, her presence. He sighed and raised her face to his, gently crushing her full lips with his, and he relished the release in her as her pain turned to passion, her lips forming to his, moving with his, and he steered her into the shadows. He breasts fluttered against his chest as the kiss broke apart and he pulled away from her, reaching into his pocket for the handkerchief he knew she was expecting. He smiled, and said nothing as he raised to her trusting face, her eyes widened in shock as the scent of chloroform wafted to her nose. To late. He pressed the cloth to her face and held her against him until she passed out, quietly sagging into his arms. He heaved her over his shoulder and walked her to his waiting car, parked in the dark parking lot behind the bar and laid her in the back seat, taking a moment to secure her with handcuffs and shackles on the off chance that she would wake up before she was supposed to. He smiled at her passive face. She was his.
He hung her from the hook in his ceiling. Arms over her head, feet just touching the floor. He had removed her shoes. He remembered the first time, when he hadn't thought to do that and the whore had managed to fling a high heel into his face, he still has the scar. He went to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, turkey on whole wheat, and a glass of water, filtered. Then he sat in the chair across from her, and ate, while he waited for the drug to wear off.
She woke faster than most of the others, he was still eating when those luscious lashes fluttered open, revealing her beautiful and confused blue eyes. He knew she would be thirsty, and that by now her arms would feel like they were on fire. The pain was part of pleasure, he loved to watch them enjoy his touch, the pain making it feel better than it should, he loved that flicker of shame in their eyes. He had loved them all.
"Good morning." he said.
"Why are you doing this? Where am I? Who are you? Please...." her voice broke on her dry tongue, but he only smiled at her. He tapped the coffee table next to his chair with his middle finger, and saw her eyes register the items it held. Scissors, kitchen knife, scalpel, vibrator, gag, feather duster, condoms and a douche kit. her eyes widened as she took it in. He picked up the scissors and came toward her, she struggled on her hook, but he said nothing and did not stop. He took her shirt in his hand and began to cut the fabric, it fell open revealing her black lace bra. He ran his fingers over her breast and she shivered, her nipples hardening under his touch. He cut the bra open, and watched with relish as they bounced, he brushed her nipples with his lips before he went back to work, cutting her slowly out of her clothes. He felt the tears hitting him on the arm as they fell from her cheeks and he smiled up at her. Then he gathered up the rags of her outfit and stuffed them in a bag along with her shoes. Next was the feather duster.
Six hours later, he stood, naked and sweating, fully erect, as he admired her one last time. Her body glistened with perspiration, rivulets of blood ran down her from, highlighting her curves. She wasn't quite perfect, he had made mistakes, but she was still a work of art. His work in progress. He lowered her body to the plastic sheet on the floor. Now it was time to clean up. First, he douched her, then he scrubbed her body over with alcohol, then bleach. Her clothes and shoes he burned in the fireplace, he dressed himself in a painters plastic suit, before wrapping her securely and gathering her into his arms. He carried her to his barn, placed her on his work bench and went to the back room. He grabbed one of thirty bone saws from the wall, and hacked to her body to pieces. Hands and feet first, then at the elbows and knees, shoulders, hips, across the belly button, and at the neck. The head he cut into six, mostly equal, pieces. All of it, he put into three cloth feedbags. He put the plastic sheet over the wagon before putting the bags in, and he dragged her mutilated corpse out behind the barn, to the pig pen. Before he dumped her in, he took a moment to recall her face, for the last time. Within the hour she was gone, cloth bags and all.
He disposed of the plastic sheet, painters suit, saw, and all the tools he has used on her, but dropping them into a vat of brake fluid. It would take about a day, but the fluid would eat through it all, dissolving and destroying any evidence. He cleaned his house thoroughly with bleach and comet cleaner, he didn't keep anything. He knew that in the end if he started collecting, he would get sloppy, get caught. He thought of not having keepsakes as self inflicted punishment. He had to strain to remember each one.
He remembered the whole six hour affair, over dinner. He treasured her life, as it faded in his mind, the way her creamy skin had gone blotchy with fear, the way she has looked when she experienced orgasm, each time the shame, the self revulsion. He smiled as the scent of her was lost in the scent of his steak.
It took him a month to find the next one. He didn't change his routine, he still went to the bar, he discussed her leaving her husband with the other gossips. Then he slowly stopped showing up, gradually distancing himself from the bar and the people there. They would remember him, but vaguely. He found a new bar, in a town not too far away, a new woman, with a husband like hers. A new sad story, a new soft face crying on his shoulder in his dark. She was less trusting than the last one, which made her more fun. It took him three months to gain her trust, to make her his friend, to see that gleam in her eye that said she wanted to make him her lover.
She was the thing he'd always loved about her. The way she always walked past him as though he didn't exist. Her jeans quietly swishing in time to the sway of her thighs, the way the light flooded her hair, making it shine and bounce. She was a vision. Perfection from the fiery, bouncing curls, to the way her her bare heels came down on her woven flip-flops. In a just moment she would turn and pretend to be surprised to see him, flashing that girl-next-door smile that always took his breath away. He would give her a half smile and a nod in return, she would wave, perfectly manicured nails shining in the fluorescent lighting. Oh yeah. She was a vision.