A Child Killer's Soliloquy: Chapter 3

The neighborhood she and I lived in was not composed of big houses, though I admit ours was the most spacious place I’ve ever lived. However, these relatively small houses are situated on rather large plots of land. This prevents sound from inside one house from traveling to another. So, raunchy sex, bitter arguments, and even violent home invasions do not affect one’s neighbors. This has contributed to the relative harmony in that neighborhood, though there cannot be said to also be any neighborly concern there.

There is one individual in that quiet little community of about twenty-four households that had garnered the dislike of virtually everyone living there. One could argue he went out of his way to do so, too. Max Gardinier, despite having had such an interesting and compelling name, was a most repellent specimen of the human species.

He was morbidly obese with the poor hygiene one stereotypes to that demographic, complete with an unkempt appearance in general. He was perpetually unemployed and did nothing to change this. He was not in any way forced to do so by his indulgent mother, with whom he lived. His mother, Gladys Gardinier, could be mistaken for a sweet old Protestant woman upon first meeting her. Anything more than an acquaintanceship, however, revealed her to be an entitled woman. I guess she received some pity upon the death of her husband, a man I can tell you nothing about, and since then, she has reiterated and emphasized her status as a widow in order to obtain free favors from neighbors. This ranged from simple deferences to a whole day’s work. I’m quite sure she tried this at various shops to obtain free goods. I know her son had been cited several times for pathetically failed attempts at shoplifting.

However bad she was, her son was at least ten times worse. He would harass the woman in the neighborhood, having put his hands several times on my wife - never when I was around, mind you, the fucking coward. He also attempted to get into fights with one or the other elderly men in the neighborhood, but never so confrontational with some one closer to his own age. There are many individual and singular incidents I could recount, but I know you’re not here to discuss one of the deceased.

So, let’s discuss what happened on the night that was between April 11 and April 12 last year.

I came to the conclusion that this witch of a woman’s son must be a virgin. His appearance and his behavior were certain guarantees of that. Certainly, his virginity was guaranteed.

Regardless of the neighborhood’s opinion of him, and even with the generous spacing between houses that would silence any cries for help, I still needed to be careful. It wasn’t just for the sake of preventing one of the occupants of that house from calling the police, but also not to mix his and her blood. If some chemical change happened in her blood when she committed the sin of conceiving that pathetic excuse for a man, what certainty did I have that should the blood samples mingle, the same chemical reaction would not change his?

To prevent the phone call, it was nothing but a matter of carefully entering the house without breaking anything. A sliding glass door offers little resistance when lifted upwards, so that the latch lock is latched onto nothing at all. There are measures one can take to prevent this, but an old woman who wants everything done for her and her retard hippopotamus son are not likely to know these things. And if they did, I doubt they’d take the efforts to implement these things.

They had one such door in the back of their house, leading to the ground floor. The two were in their respective rooms. His window should the blue glow of a screen, some sort of degenerate porn I bet. Her room was dark, but as close as I was when I snuck into their home, I could hear her occasionally yell for him to reduce the volume. I could hear a loud thumping, rhythmic like he was listening to some music with a heavy subwoofer or something.

This played to my advantage. He would not hear me approach, being the only person awake enough to do anything about an intruder, and she would likely attribute any noise I made to him. Also, being in separate rooms meant I had the distinct advantage of not having to mix blood sample. It was merely a matter of using two different instruments to murder each one.

If you’re wondering how I intended to transport his blood from his murdered body to my wife’s lips, I planned on stealing their tupperware. The old woman was known for having quite a bit of the stuff, as she brought numerous dishes to church gatherings and community parties. No need to pity her fate, she did not do so with good intentions, often only doing so to show up some younger, prettier neighborhood woman.

She would make something she knew another rival – the rivalry being only known to herself and not the other woman – was making; and, seeing as she often had these secret feuds with as many women as possible, my wife often included, she would make many dishes. At any event, she would loudly ask people to compare the two dishes, and boastfully proclaim hers always came out the superior. She wasn’t lying, but this is in bad form.

Anyway, back to the story.

First, I think I should detail the entirety of my outfit for the murder, in case your wondering how no trace of my being there was ever discovered in the subsequent investigation. On my head I wore a cap, and over my head was a ski mask. Over my torso, arms, and legs I wore no less that three layers. A light set of winter underwear touched my skin, and then on top of that was an ordinary sweater and thermal waffle pants. Finally, a jacket and some jeans formed the third, top layer of my clothing. I wore a pair of woolen winter gloves over top of disposable gloves. My jeans were tucked into a pair of boots. My concern was not just leaving behind no finger print and not having my face identified by some hidden camera system, but also not leaving behind any trace such as hair or skin. I wanted to give a forensics investigative team absolutely no chance of identifying me.

The back of the house was easily entered, as I’ve said already. I came into the kitchen first, taking care to step slowly so each footfall was silent. I knew the likelihood of noise betraying me was low, but still, it’s better to take precautions.

As I’ve said already, I did not want to mix blood samples. One mistake like that and everything done that night would mean nothing. In the kitchen, I looked around and found the kitchen knives and steak knives were on the counter, prominently displayed in a holding block. They were good knives, and I took the two largest out, laying each one down on the counter. These I would use to kill the fat fuck.

The old woman would be easier to kill, I thought. But I still did not even want to use the same weapon on her as I did on her son. In fact, a blunt object might do better in her case, to cause as little bleeding as possible so as to minimize all risk of sample contamination. Hanging from hooks in the ceiling the old woman kept her cooking pans. All of them clean silver which I’m sure, in the daylight, shone as bright as the sun itself. I took a medium sized pan and carefully laid that down on the counter, away from the knives.

There was still one last thing to do before I went through with my mission. I searched every drawer and cabinet, quietly of course, until I found where the old bitch kept her tupperwares. They were neatly stacked and organized in a lower cabinet close to the kitchen sink. I closed everything else but that one door, so I wouldn’t have to repeat my search after the ordeal of killing.

With that done, and my heart racing because the silverware drawer closed with what I thought was a loud noise, I grabbed the two knives and made my way to the staircase. Standing at the first stair I inhaled deeply. I worried about the inevitability of creaking stairs. As I stood there, preparing myself psychologically to do what must be done, I was shocked to hear the old woman yell again. She yelled to her son to turn the music down. He was listening to some loud dubstep or some other shitty electronica.

In a moment the music was mute. My task had just tripled in difficulty. I wanted to leave but the thought of my wife continuing to suffer if I did strengthened my resolve. I began the ascent up the stairs and into the crime.

Each step led to some subtle grown from the stair beneath my feet. I worried about falling down the stairs and stabbing myself in the process more than anything else in that moment, as that being discovered, I thought, would only cause me to hasten the murder. Yet, neither resident of this house seemed to be aware of my presence.

However many stairs there were in that staircase, that’s how many groans and creaks of the wood of an old house it took for me to ascend. I was actually surprised when I mounted the top. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest, and my breathing seemed to me to be deep and loud, each exhale sounding like an audible sigh. Now I stood, facing five doors, two of which swung outwards, as I could just make out their hinges in the dark, my eyes aided only by moonlight creeping in through the windows. These doors swinging out were closets. So, that meant there were two bedrooms and one bathroom.

The subtle blue glow I had seen from outside came from some screen in the son’s room. The light still danced from underneath one of those doors, telling me where he was. My first victim would require no guessing as to which door he hid behind. Stepping as carefully as I did downstairs, I approached this door.

Standing at the closed door, I took a deep breath and slowly turned the knob. Opening the door, I wasn’t detected at all.

His back was to me as he played some game. The music wasn’t muted, but instead no longer played through his home stereo system. Rather, he deafened himself with colorful headphones. He played some game on his computer, exactly which one I didn’t care to tell and couldn’t have, as his massive frame obscured most of the screen from my angle. The only difficulty I would have would be reaching him. He was oblivious to my presence.

But the room, the room my friend, was no easy navigation for some one to just amble through. It would be even harder to sneak in, holding a knife in each hand, without tripping. His bed was unmade, and many of the blankets lay halfway on the filthy ground. Several pillows, of varying sizes and purposes, if you understand me, were scattered over the bed. There were no sheets on the mattress, and in the flickering light of the screen, I could make out what I think were some kind of stains.

The tops of both the nightstand and dresser were covered in a disorganized array of figurines, open cans, bottles, and discarded wrappers. Clothes, trashbags, trash just thrown onto the ground, and even some long forgotten stuffed animals covered the ground, forming a sort of minefield for me to navigate.

Perhaps six, maybe seven feet were now between me and him. Yet these would be the perilous six or seven feet I’d taken yet.

I stepped into the room quietly, undetected by the monstrosity so enraptured by the screen. Silently, I closed the door, but not all the way to prevent the sound doors make when they latch shut. Then, I stepped forward. Every step I took was careful, and I focused more on the floor than I did on the victim. Soon, I was close enough to touch him, and he was no wiser.

His bed was on my right side, and in my right hand was the larger of the two knives I brought upstairs. I lay that knife on the bed, and handed the smaller of the two knives from my left to my right.

I hoped for the quickest and most painless kill I could give him, for even though he was an asshole and more than likely deserved this for who knows how many serious offenses, I still believe he did not deserve to suffer greatly. Just two more steps and I’d kill him.

I took one. Suddenly, he stopped typing and reached for some can placed away from his computer. I was shocked, afraid of being discovered and having to actually fight with this three-hundred pound lard ass. But he did not once look over his shoulder, though this could have very well saved his life. His game was more important to him.

The second step was made. Now I was right behind him. It was quickly and easily now, or a struggle. Any other movement and he would certainly be alerted to my presence. I could hear distinctly the music he was listening to blaring into his ears, so loud it sounded like muffled speakers instead of headphones. I saw the game he was playing. Some character running around, collecting something or other. It was nothing notable to me. Yet, in this moment, which was to be his last, he seemed totally content.

In a fluid motion I put my hand on his forehead, gently pulling him back but moreso to prevent him from moving his head forward as I plunged the knifed through the little soft spot between the base of the skull and the highest vertebrae. He made some sound, as if his last word was on the tip of his tongue, but in that moment, with my surprisingly quick execution of a single motion, it never left his mouth. He was dead.

I let his head drop onto his keyboard and looked again at the screen. Against a wall his character now ran, moving nowhere. The game played on but with no progress for the player was dead. I can’t say I did this without remorse. As I turned to leave the room, my eyes took in his things. Evidence that he had once been a happy child and now, though perhaps not fully mentally matured into a man, he did have serious interests. Intermingled with the trash and pornography there were philosophy books and rather impressive pieces of literature. On the nightstand I noticed, for the first time, a carefully preserved stuffed lion, given some important place. No doubt this was a treasured artifact of his now no longer remembered preadolescence. I felt some tears begin to form in my eyes as I opened the door back into the hallway.

Whatever sentiments I was feeling then quickly vanished when I opened the door, coming face to face with his mother who has just exited the bathroom. She had on her face a look of shock and seeing me, and looking past me, seeing what I had done, shock turned to horrified despair. She shrieked as she tried to run back into her room. Overcoming my initial shock, I gave chase and grabbed hold of her as she crossed the threshold into her bedroom. With all my strength I threw her into the ground.

She began to sob in pain, and I knew I broke something. Next to her was an old wooden dresser. I tipped that on top of her. She still sobbed and attempted to plea for her life. I lifted the dresser up only to let it fall again. And again I repeated this. I kept this up until the sobbing and begging stopped. A pool of blood flowed out from underneath the dresser. I jumped out of the room, careful not to get any on my boots.

Then I hurried downstairs. I could make noise now, as no one would hear me but myself. Yet haste was important. I had a body to drain of blood into tupperware. I could bore you with these details, telling about each trip up and down the stairs, the difficulty in draining a morbidly obese man of every drop of blood, and how by the time I had finished, I could see the first beams of light coming from the sun. I won’t do that, because it was honestly quite repetitive. Just know that the human being has a surprising amount of blood in it, more than one would think, or at least I once thought. A fat person is hard to move even they are dead. And all of this took more time, and was as repetitive and eventually as boring as a job stocking shelves for a retailer.

With some good fortune, I did get all of the blood back to my house without incident. If somebody did see me, they did not suspect anything then despite my suspicious garb.

The double murder scene wasn’t discovered for a few days. I don’t quite recall how police came to be alerted, though I think it had something to do with a delivery. Perhaps I was seen, and it was understood what I had done. Yet I’m sure most of those two’s neighbors would have considered it more of a public service than some egregious crime. Nobody in the neighborhood seemed to really be too saddened.

Of course they talked about the murder. They talked less sympathetically about the old woman and her son and instead talked about the investigation as if it were a streamed drama unfolding in their own front yards. Women talked about the forensic process, each trying to impress her friends with her incredible knowledge gained from hours of various true crime documentaries, and they ranked the investigators in order of attractiveness. Men talked about how they would have secured their own homes and measures they already had in place to prevent such a thing form happening to them, ironically detailing to any listeners a full plan of home defense, like a soldier unwittingly informing an enemy spy of his unit’s location, size, equipment, and movements.

I contributed to these conversations, of course, in an attempt to blend in. However, I said as little as possible. In the darkness of my home, where I fought to keep out the sunlight, I fed my wife the blood of that fat man. She drank only a little a day.

There was no positive effect. I even upped how much she drank a day. It went from a few sips daily to a glass daily. In almost no time, she was drinking his blood with every meal. And still, nothing.

She grew older, dryer, and closer to her ultimate end.