[ IP ] The Room

“ 911, what ’ s your emergency? ” 
 
 “ I just killed my boss. You should come soon. ” I hung up the phone. 
 
 It was the first time I ever killed a man. I still remember it like it was yesterday. The triumph, the glory, the power of having a human life, the life of someone who was once sung lullabies to, the life of someone who used to run across summer lawns playing games of tag with no shoes on, the life of someone who went to Harvard, in my hands. The warm spray of deep red on your body, the hot breaths so strong and desperate you might have thought Satan himself was breathing on you. The screams of agony and pleas for mercy screamed so loud that the twisted creature slowly finds his voice getting raspier and softer, until he has wailed for so long that his voice fades away, along with any hope for salvation. And the words dry up and crack in his throat. And he suddenly becomes aware of how much pain he is in. And he sees how much blood he has lost. And he hears the sound of you cutting away at his skin and bones until he is nothing more than a few pieces of meat, like a slaughtered cow waiting to be butchered, sold, barbequed, and served to hungry guests whose mouths water with anticipation. I remember how thirsty I became in the middle of it all. I licked my cracked lips and raised the blade to my mouth, cleaning off the blood with my tongue. But the end was the best part. By then he knew what was happening, resigning himself to his miserable fate. Tears soaked the one eye that hadn ’ t been taken out. I could hear him softly reciting prayers to himself between whimpers. Prayers not to the demons he prayed to for strength and glory, but to the God he sworn off long ago. Coward. In the end, I took the knife. The one he used on her, and plunged it deep into his chest. Swiftly, I felt it pierce through his knock-off suit and penetrate his black and dirty heart. 
 
 That was when I started laughing. Laughing hysterically. Laughing like how he used to laugh. Softly at first. Chuckles to myself which I tried half-heartedly to control. Then I snorted, and burst out cackling. So hard my eyes stung with tears and I had to clutch my stomach. I was rolling on the floor laughing. Rolling around next to his remains. His blood staining my new clothes and getting all over my hair. I wasn ’ t concerned about that. I was trying too hard to catch my breath to notice. After a few hours, I had calmed down, and took deep breaths until regaining control of myself. For a while after I was aroused, but that went away pretty fast. Then I walked over to his corpse. I opened his eye and looked deep inside, seeing only myself. 
 
 And no, I don ’ t mean the old cliché where the hero becomes the monster it once fought against. I mean this man made me who I am. The Grand Archibald looked at me when everyone else looked away. He saw potential where others saw a runaway punk. And when we would be laying together on the couch, my head in his lap, his gentle yet cruel hands delicately stroking my chestnut tresses the way a young girl strokes a kitten, he saw love where she saw inadequacy. For a moment I thought maybe she did deserve it. That I was wrong to kill the only person I ever really cared for. But no, the thought passed quickly. And that was when I called the police. 
 
 The police asked me a lot of questions. One of the first was why I did it. I told him I don ’ t know, and that I just felt like killing someone to see what it was like. But that ’ s a lie. 
 
 I did it because of his fetish. Some men have foot fetishes or fetishes for body piercings. The Grand Archibald of Chicago had a fetish for pregnant woman. 
 It wasn ’ t a fetish. It was a bloodlust. He didn ’ t sleep with them. He took them to his room. The same room I took him. He drugged them and strapped him into a chair ( which I didn ’ t use ), but I ’ d rather not say the rest. At first I didn ’ t really mind. I was in love with him, and when you love someone, you overlook their little quirks. And then he brought Rebeca to the room. 
 
 Rebeca was a close friend of mine. Not really, in fact we barely ever talked. But part of my work for The Grand Archibald of Chicago was selling crystal, and we slept together once when she didn ’ t have enough money. Rebeca was white trash. Bleach blonde hair with bubble gum pink highlights. Fake eyelashes, smudged black eyeliner against china-man white skin. Wore crop tops and low riders despite her small chest and pot belly. Nose piercings, ear piercings, Chinese tattoos which she claimed meant “ hope ” and “ strength ” in English but everyone knew was complete bullshit. So why should I care? It ’ s not like Rebeca meant anything to the world. She was trash. She would never amount to anything. She ’ d spend the rest of her life raising a litter of half-black unwanted kids with welfare checks and child support. She ’ d raise them in some dumpy apartment and they ’ d become screw ups just like her. Better that the cycle be stopped before it could begin. 
 
 But when she was brought to the room, she was at least six months pregnant. Suddenly it occurred to me that we hooked up at least six months ago. She saw me briefly when she woke up, and I peeked my head in to see if he was done, and there was a glimmer in her eyes that I had never seen before. Maybe it was just the lights in the room, or maybe it was because she thought I would save her. Because it was my baby I ’ d be saving. 
 
 But no, instead I sat outside like a coward and listened. I heard it all. The same things I heard dozens of times before, yet different. The screams were louder. The thrashing of her chains wilder and feistier than the others. Even now, when I close my eyes all I see is a helpless, pink haired pregnant girl strapped to a chair, fighting for two lives she knew were over that night. He smeared her blood on the wall when he was finished, and neither of us ever bothered cleaning it up. It ended up helping me when I called and asked him to meet me there. Whenever I was doubting myself, I looked at her blood and was instantly reminded of what he had done. And not just to her, but to so many others. It filled me with more strength and adrenaline than every demon in Hell he and I used to pray to. And when he finally arrived, that ’ s when the fun began. 
 
 So now, here I am, sitting in my jail cell and waiting for trial. Sometimes I wonder what ever happened to the room. If it ’ s crossed of by police or if some other devil-worshiping psychopath and his runaway protégé are renting it out for their own fun. I keep meaning to ask my lawyer, but I always forget when he comes by. The trial won ’ t be for another few months, but that ’ s alright. Because the hardest part of anything you have no control over is waiting for it to be over. 

