Why by Tess Pfeifle

Jun 17 2012 Published by under The WiFiles

In the slammer, I can’t tell you how many people ask “how”.

Inmates can’t seem to get enough of those answers; how many times I plunged the knife into them, how they pleaded for their lives until the blood rested in their throats, how their eyes rolled back into their heads when it was all over.

Yes, they love “hows”.

Quite frankly, I am tired of “hows”. They are boring, trite and barely contain any humor at all. The “whys” are much more interesting, they are the hook of the song. I have begun to think that many of the murderers here don’t even have a real “why”. Their wife cheated on them, their mothers ignored them when they were little, their friends tried to sell them out for heroin. How charming. It’s endearing the way these miscreants beg and whine. It’s like they think they’re special. They didn’t even get away with it. I got away with a lot.

It all started with Lillian Howard in Middleborough High School. She had brown hair that cascaded down her narrow back. If you stared at her bright green eyes for too long, they began to look like cat eyes. Lillian was my high school crush, my unrequited love, my reason and my blood. Lillian was everything. I remember when I first fell in love with her, oh how those moments of my glittering youth rushes back to me in great, passionate waves crashing into the here and now. We were in biology; we had to dissect frogs. I was waiting for Lillian to pass out. I wanted to catch her. I think she noticed me hovering over her because her forehead beaded with sweat.

Lillian didn’t crumple to the ground though. She didn’t even squirm when she dug the blade into that frog’s belly. That’s when I knew I loved her. She wasn’t squeamish at all, just like me. I knew we could get along.

I followed her home one night. Lillian had to stay late for swim practice. She saw me as she clicked the lock on her front door open.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lillian asked, her jeering question cut me in worse ways than I could ever cut her. Even all these years later it makes me cringe.

“I was walking you home.” Looking into her eyes, my mouth fumbled over the words.

“Leave me alone Cameron” Lillian whispered harshly. It was all I needed. She knew my name, and I walked right up her steps and pushed my hand over her peach colored mouth. Lillian’s soft lips pressing savagely against my hand. I remember how her hair smelled of chlorine and her eyes were so weary. She screamed out fiercely when I first started. I remember lifting her in my car. Lillian’s still body heavy from the water she had taken on in the pool, her skin wrinkled yet still so beautiful. She was my first, in more ways then one.

Her dump was the messiest I ever made. Yet it was still better than many others.

I deftly cut off her fingers and yanked the teeth out of her mouth. Keeping the molar, a keepsake for our time together. I choked her, purple bruises latticed like a necklace on her delicate neck. I decided I couldn’t do anything about that, and moved on.

I stabbed her, forty times. Passionately, I was mad at her, mad at myself. Mad this wasn’t perfect. Because I was perfect, yet as the blood steeped into the drain of my bathtub, I begun to realize something. This was perfect, her warm blood mingling with my sweat and the gentle water leaking out through the faucet.

Cleaning her up was easy. Every thing was wet and every thing could be easily cleaned. I wrapped her up in a trash bag, black and unremarkable.

Driving a little past the main street in my sleepy little town. No one was on the road. People always have some place to be. They dither about like bugs caught in a trap. They don’t have a purpose. I have a purpose.

I pulled onto the shoulder, making sure my tires only hit pavement. I didn’t leave any tracks. I deposited her by the side of the road.

But, I wanted someone to find her. I wanted my masterpiece shown to the world. So I tied a big red ribbon on it and with gloved hands, exposed one lithe, white arm.

I followed this M.O for the rest of my career, and plan on following it once I get back on track.

The police didn’t even come near me. What idiots. That small town police force forgot to question their own people. Every time there is a murder, they call in the big guys; FBI, State Police. It’s just easier. I felt invigorated with what I had done. I did not consider it much of a crime at the time. It had been half accidental anyway. But I developed a taste for it. It was an itch that could only be scratched with screams, an insatiable hunger that demanded violence.

I thought Lillian was for me. Lillian seemed to be my equal, smart, quick-witted and not squeamish. I thought we could get along. But we couldn’t. The only thing I could do was to take the life of her. She didn’t deserve me. There was no way I could let her live with so much of myself invested with her. Lillian wasn’t worth my time.

The next was Angel, a few months later. Ironic how strippers always pick the sweetest names. She wanted me. I could understand why.

I was handsome; I came from a good family. I had a lot of money; money she could pay the rent with. Angel looked brightly at me, when I offered an invitation back to my place. Having her over was really the least I could do.

I threw her on the bed. I didn’t need force for this one, at least not for this part. Her glitter littered my bed; her black eyeliner soiled my white pillowcases. I began caressing her neck and still remember the “O” her devilishly red painted lips made when she finally realized what I was. Angel’s body was heavier than Lillian’s. But I got rid of it.

No one looks for dead strippers, too easy. I was almost embarrassed as I stood over her still warm body. She thought she was near me. I bet Angel though we “connected”. How could I let someone like her walk around thinking we were equals. We were far from equals. Her untimely end is proof of that.

Susan was the librarian at the local library. Her mousy looks couldn’t cover up her slutty, sleepy eyes that begged me to take her to bed. I was a real man now. I needed a real woman. Not a silly teenage girl or a gritty stripper. Her breathy voice was soon mixing with mine as I led her to the back, the deepest depths the library had to offer. It was an alarmingly easy place to get lost in. Susan went the quietest. She knew what was coming and she did not resist me. Perhaps she sensed my greatness.

Still thought, I thought Susan was at least as smart as I. She wasn’t, they never are. Susan paraded around with her knowledge of Orwell and Poe. But she didn’t know much at all. For a split second I think she thought she knew me. No one knows me.

So there is your “why”, I suppose there is more than one. There are three, to be exact. There were many more after Lillian, Angel and Susan, fourteen more. Their stories are more interesting. More interesting than how many times I stabbed Lillian post-mortem. Or how Angel’s little mouth screamed at me to save her. Even more interesting than how Susan succumbed so easily to me, to my hunger, that she let me stuff her with the ripped out pages of books she worked so hard to keep in tact. Yes. These all seem much more interesting to me then silly statistics.

I basked in the glow of the nightly news reports of another girl gone missing. An even stronger glow enveloped me when they found the girls dead. I couldn’t stop smiling, because it was always one of my girls.

In my opinion, cleanliness isn’t next to godliness. But it helps when I play god.

Hours spent watching them, getting know them, befriending them. With each of the girls, I always hope that the current one will be the one. Exalting in complete ecstasy that I have finally met my match only to be disappointed weeks, days or even hours after when she falls far beneath my standards.

I am not a Raskolnikov searching for his Sonya. My story isn’t that of Crime and Punishment, though hundreds of psychologists wrongly believe I am search for atonement. How wrong they are, how delusional they are. To think that they could ever comprehend what I do is laughable.

I am not in jail because I got caught. You don’t kill for eight years and then get “caught” you don’t “slip up”. Killers’ only slip up when they’re desire to kill overruns their desire not to get caught.

I did not want to get caught.

I did what I did for a much more noble reason, they caught the wrong guy. Those idiots were so quick to tell the city that they had caught me. But they didn’t catch me. They could never catch me.

The police had a very public trial for Dan Kellmer. They had connected him on a few, rudimentary points of evidence. Dan Kellmer was a killer, but he was not a serial killer. He was guilty of killing a girl he was dating, the sister of one of my girls. The police were more focused on calming the public than catching the right guy.

I walked into the trial, jingling the contents that rested in my pockets.

As Dan Kellmer’s lawyer was making his testimony I walked in. The court will never forget what I said.

“Heard the girls were missing some teeth”

The bailiff tensed, the judge looked confused, but he let me speak. I didn’t give him the gratification.

I emptied my pockets, and out fell fifteen molars.

You see, I cut the fingertips off the girls, as well as their teeth. Since I usually had a little fun with them before I cut them lose, I didn’t want the girls to be quickly traced. It gave me more time to clean up.

The whole city was up in arms that the police had made such a dire mistake. I perpetuated the destruction of the girls with the mistrust of the citizens. Mistrust for their own police force. People are so vapid. Jumping from one protest to the next.

Psychologists come see me, criminologists visit me often, and I even have my own fan club. They think I’ll be in jail for the rest of my life.

How daft people are. I’ll be leaving soon.


Bio: Tess Pfeifle is eighteen and enjoys good stories, long Velvet Underground songs and really bad horror movies. Despite her age, she has an ever-growing list of publications which can be found on her website, www.tesspfeifle.weebly.com Her goal is to show the world that, sometimes, words can just as much noise as actions.



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