HiM

When he was a small child, he was happy. Happy not being a word used here to show contentment and pleasure. No, he was much more than content and pleased. He was grateful. He was at peace and carefree; he was happy. But he is no longer that child. Just a sad creature devoid of as much serotonin and gaiety as a person could be.

She was always with him. From the moment they met, never left him alone in this merciless world. So what happened that day? What did she do that hurt him so badly? What happened to her that finally pushed him to this point beyond all hope?

The woman on the cold, damp, hardwood floor is a lifeless corpse, slumped over in a half sitting half lying position. Her legs are spread apart, one broken irregularly and facing the same direction as the other leg. Her deep blue hair is stained with dark blood that isn't her own, matted partially underneath her still warm head. Her dark brown eyes are wide open but sit with a blank message for their body's killer.

He looks away, the feeling of accomplishment fading as boredom creeps in. She was pretty, he thinks. Mm, and now she's nothing. He must finish what he started. The sound of his scalpel, gripped in his scrawny hand, scraping against the glass counter fills the metal box that is his lair. He hums to it; the noise pleases him.

The man exhales deeply. In his free hand, he carries an old oil lamp for light. His boot covered feet clatter with the floor without rhythm. He kneels down to his victim's figure, stopping the music of his shoes. The man squints behind his thick-framed glasses into the doe-like eyes of the woman as he drags his small blade across the leathery skin of her face.

"I'm sorry." Almost effortlessly, tears begin to stream down his freckled cheeks. An unwelcome smile forms on the sad canvas that is the man’s face. He mumbles, "I have to finish."

The scalpel cuts through the skin just under the hairline. He lifts the tool for a moment, watching wide-eyed as crimson blood trickles from the wound. His eyes twitch uncomfortably yet his smile turns into somewhat of a recurrent beam. He swipes the liquid with his shaking, left index finger and holds it in front of his face as if to ensure its safety for consumption. He changes his mind, however. Instead of consuming the substance, he simply wipes it across his full lips then rubs them together. He shudders with another toothy smile, then continues to remove the woman's scalp.

He carries his prize over to the last empty spot on the black coat rack where other blood-crusted scalps full of hair hang. He forces his fingers through caked locks, admiring the neatness of his lacerations, a satisfaction he expresses by the slightest curve at his mouth's corner. It won't last forever, his satisfactory, no. Soon he'll be right back where he started, alone and depressed.

It is time for another.

~~~

The human body, as commonly stated, is a fine work of art. Especially that of a woman. Perfectly carved bones so neatly wrapped in muscle and flesh. Flesh. Skin. Smooth and warm, abundant in natural, earthy shades of browns and tans.

Hers is perfect. The figure of a model, but not a starving model. Round and full in all the right places. Slim where needed. However, so much of her beautiful, fair skin is being revealed to the world. Too much. Her shapely, naked thighs scream at him and her cleavage seems so forced by her tight clothing. She's dressed this way on purpose. He could pluck her right out of this cafe and teach her a much needed lesson; the thought crosses his mind.

What a whore. He averts his gaze. My love would never walk in the presence of another man dressed that way.

He sits alone in his booth, the very seat he used to share with his late wife. His back is pressed against the chilled glass window, hands stuffed in the warm pockets of his jeans as he searches for the perfect prey. A waitress in a white and red apron with a matching hat approaches. She's the average height for a woman and seems to be physically fit. Her skin is pale and clear and she wears a very cheery expression. Her pants are loose fitting and long. That's good. Her hair is short, jet black. That can be fixed. She looks to be fairly young also.

"Sir?" The young woman leans toward the man with the glasses and plaid button-up. Her voice is high pitched and whiny. It's annoying. "What would you like today?"

"Are you new here?" He asks in a monotone without looking her in the face.

"I am actually." The sweet girl smiles. "I take it you come here often."

"I do. You don't. That's why I asked."

The waitress's smile disappears and her pen clicks loudly. "What can I get you?"

"A coffee."

"Iced or..?"

"Make it how you want. I'm not gonna drink it anyway."

Confused and a little worried about the whole situation, the girl stares into the man's luminous green eyes, which are enlarged by the thick lenses of his seeing aid, before turning around and walking off. She's the one. When she returns, her customer is no longer seated on the cushioned booth. What she does find, however, is a folded piece of paper. Before reaching for it, she looks up through the window where she sees no one, then continues to scan the shop for any sign of the man. She doesn't find him. Thinking nothing of his sudden disappearance, she sits down the coffee mug and proceeds to pick up the paper and open it.

Step outside. I want to talk to you. Maybe even get your number.

Very straightforward and strange, the message. For some reason, however. the naive woman dusts her already cleaned hands on her apron, looks around ensuring her boss doesn't notice her, and walks through the doors of the building. The man looked harmless anyway. She doesn't smile or anything, just crosses her arms and walks along. He is waiting for her, leaning against his beat-up car which is parked under a shedding tree. The night is chilled no doubt, the girl rubs her arms trying hard to lay back down the hairs that stand on them. There's a bitterness to the air, but it doesn't seem to affect the man.

"Hi," She giggles, “again.”

"What's your name?" It almost doesn't sound like a question.

"Hannah. What's yours?"

"Listen very, very carefully, Hannah." Life can finally be heard through the tone of his voice and he talks slow, making the poor girl uneasy. "You will walk close to me. You will get in the car. You will not scream or run or try to harm me if you value your life. Do we understand each other?"

She shivers quietly, looking up and down the man for any indication of an actual threat. He helps her out by lifting the corner of his shirt, showing the butt of his gun, which he has no intention of using. Guns are boring and too sudden. Blades are his weapons of choice. Precise and lasting.

"Do you understand?"

She nods and slowly steps closer as he opens the door behind the driver's seat. "Get in. Look happy."

Hannah can't see through either of the windows beside her and barely through the windshield. The seat under her is cold and damp and tattered. There aren't any seat belts or any cup holders and she can't make out what type of car it is. It smells of cigarettes and bleach. She puts the pieces together quite quickly. I'm going to die.

"What's your name?" He repeats the question as he recklessly speeds down a road unfamiliar to the girl.

"H-Hannah."

"What is your name?"

She says nothing.

"The next time I ask you that question, your answer will be 'Lenora'."

Everything seems to be spinning for Hannah and her eyes water as she quivers with her head down. Her breathing becomes shallow and she closes her eyes, squeezing her clothing in her hands. He's going to kill me. She gags at the thought of lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding to death. Is that to be her fate? Tears soak her cheeks as her panic attack worsens.

"I-I have a baby!" She shouts behind loud sobs. "Her name is Iris. She's six months old. I have to get back to her! Please don't kill me! Pl-"

"You know I could never be a father, love." He looks at her through his rear view mirror. "Never. That's a nice dream though. Except for the name; Iris. I don't like that very much." Lenora wouldn't like a name like that either. The man remembered a conversation he once had with her where they discussed baby names for a kid he never planned to have.

"We're going to have all boys. For sure." His wife would tell him. "Elio. And Xander." He never understood her reason behind wanting those names so badly, still doesn't. "I don't want girls." She told him. He understood what she meant about that. At least now more than ever.

Hannah's tears stop at the sheer incertitude of the man's words. At the same time, it angers her to know that he completely disregarded the clear point behind what she had said. "You sick psychopathic bastard! You son of a bitch! Let me out! Let me out!" She screams with her entire body, first pulling at the handles of the doors which are clearly locked, then swatting at the man with weakly flailing hands.

"Does this baby have a father?" Hannah doesn't quite get the intended meaning behind his words, but maybe he'll let her go if she tells him. Naivety, a deadly trait to have.

"Yes! But he's working. She's with a babysitter. She needs me, please don't take me from her!"

"Hmm. Are you married?"

"Yes! I have to get back to my family!"

"Your husband being at work is your excuse for cheating?"

Hannah sits back. "What?" She wipes her face.

"You were going to cheat on him with me, were you not? That's why you followed me out to the parking lot, isn't it? Ah, sins. You'll be punished for your sins, I hope you know. Lenora."

The woman resumes her labored cries, quietly at first. They soon turn into loud sobs once more. It fills him with great joy, the sound of her screams, her struggling grunts. Her jagged breath as she strains for more air to continue is music to his ears. He almost wants to join her in harmony, but he can't risk calling any more attention to them. His large, rock hard fist slams into the women's fragile face, silencing her. Her mouth quickly pools with blood and her head drops, unconscious. Her hat slides onto the floor and her kidnapper turns on the radio.

~~~

Hannah's eyes are closed but she can still feel his sharp fingernails digging into her thighs. She can't move, she isn't fully awake yet. Tears escape her closed lids. Down her cheeks they trial, reaching the corners of her dry mouth. He watches them with a hunger for more as he continues to caress her body in a very rough manner. He sticks out his long, moist tongue and licks the salty droplets from her skin. He hovers over her face, watching as she forces herself awake.

The young woman opens her eyes, not being able to see past his head. The man's breath smells strongly of gasoline, which gives her a slight headache and sends her thoughts in a million different directions about what his plans with her could be. She tries to hit him but her arms won't do what she asks of them. She realizes that they are in fact chained to the ceiling above her.

"Don't fight me, love."

She resorts to kicking, but her feet won't budge. Instead, there's a sharp, aching pain in them that reaches all the way up her body. "Ung. What the hell did you do to me?!" She cries out.

"You were doing too much. I merely nailed your feet to the floor." The hot breath of his sick words blows on her neck.

Hannah swallows and pants as she lowers her head to get a look at what the man was talking about. Indeed her feet, dirty and painted with blood, are nailed to the floor. This is good, she thought. The floor being wooden meant that it was a possibility that she could escape. Maybe she could lift the boards and somehow dig her way to freedom. That, however, would depend entirely on how neat or sloppy a kidnapper this man was. At that moment, despite being licked and molested by the creep, she finds a glimmer of hope.

"Are you hungry?" The man pulls away, sliding his hands down out of the women's shirt. He casually sticks them into the empty pockets of his stained apron. "You've made me quite bored, I'm afraid. I'm hungry. Burgers? Yea, that sounds good. Hold tight, Lenora, I'll make it quick."

"No," Hannah chokes up behind silent snivels, ignoring being called outside of her own name, "don't you dare leave me down here! Let me go!" Her weeping turns into violent screaming. "Let me go you sick fuck!"

"I don't like to be insulted." He kneels down to undo her chains. "That's not very nice. Would you like to be called nasty names like that?" He sucks his teeth and cocks his head to the side, not putting on any type of facial expression the entire time. "Nope. Thought not. Despite your bullying, I'm going to continue to be nice to you. How about this? I let you go and you can try to escape but only until I get back. Then your time will be up and you'll have to come back to me. Okay?"

She nods. The man continues, using a pair of pliers to lift the nails from her feet. Once her legs are free, still screaming in agony, she doesn't hesitate to plow one into the man's middle. He doubles over, but only for a brief moment before regaining air. He looks the girl in the eyes, again cocking his head with a dejected, disappointed look on his face. He leans in to her neck which has the stench of sweat and roasted coffee beans. He lets his lips gently rest upon her trembling skin.

It's strange. It's almost like the creep is apologetic. But for what? Not to say he didn't have anything to be sorry for, but there's something about the way he moves on hr skin that makes Hannah wonder. Is he solacing her?

The man's hand cracks across her face, leaving a stinging red mark. Instead of crying out, the blow causes her to whimper silently. For a moment, he doesn't remove his clammy hand, which helps to soothe the pain.

"I didn't realize you had any tears left in you. I like a sweet cry baby."

He strikes the other side of her face, her head swinging in the opposite direction. This time, she winces. He gracefully wipes the snot from her mouth before proceeding to undo the remainder of her bonds.

"Don't try that again. I don't want to hurt you."

There was something about her abductor's voice that made Hannah believe he was sincere. Or maybe she just wanted to believe it. When fully freed from the chains, she helplessly drops to the floor, blenching in pain as her knees collide with the hardwood. She realizes that her feet won't carry her and she almost gives up.

"I'll be back soon. Good luck."

There's a single window in what seems to be the basement. Not opened, however; boards of rotting wood are nailed to it, covering it almost entirely. Hannah, on hands and knees, drags herself across the damp floor. She takes somewhat fast strides with small pauses in between to catch her breath. Once she reaches the wall, she remembers that she can't stand. The window is approximately four feet above her. Panicking, she begins to breathe rapidly while looking around the room, anxious to find another way.

Hannah stares at the floor under her, one spot after another. She then looks about the area for something to pry the boards up with. She sees not much of anything in the room but two tables. Her plan fades as she drags herself over to them.There are two oil lamps sitting on the steel table, the room's only source of light. On the glass table is a hammer, a pitcher of water, a lighter, and a set of used, dirty knives. Did he leave me in a room with weapons? She thinks. He's really letting me go? She reaches up on the table and grabs a large kitchen knife. It's coated in blood. Her hand trembles but she ignores it and crawls over to the tall staircase. She repeatedly trips as she scrambles upward, keeping her focus on the exit, a simple, metal door. Her feet hit the edges of each step and the pain is nearly impossible to ignore. She screams internally, trying to reach the top.

To Hannah's surprise, the door isn't locked. Thinking not much of it, she forcefully pushes it open. On the other side there's nothing but a long, dark hall. The sight makes her heart sink. She expected more. Hoped for more. She looks down at her feet which are now swollen and covered in scratches. Determined to make it out of the clutches of the nameless monster, she continues on through the corridor. Its walls are steel, a metallic smell fills the entire area. She tries to move without making noise but her uncontrolled panting echoes loudly. There's a turn on the left and she takes it. It's a shorter hall with a wooden door at the end. This one isn't locked either so she enters effortlessly into the large storage room. Brooms, mops, cleaning supplies. Hannah contemplates hiding in it but she wants her freedom more than anything. She could just wait for him to return and kill him. Then it would be easier for her to leave anyway.

Footsteps are nearing that can't possibly be her own. She pauses on her hands and knees and looks around anxiously. There isn't a single ray of light coming from anywhere but the closet in which she rests. She can't see anyone so, gripping her weapon tightly, she speeds down the hall, feeling along its cold walls until she reaches another turn. It leads her to yet another door that's cracked open. There's a light that shines through from the other side. The sound of walking is gone but Hannah hurriedly pulls the door open, still in fear for her life. An uncontrolled screech escapes her mouth while she stares into the eyes of another screaming, horrified young woman. A single light bulb hangs on the ceiling of the one-foot-deep closet. On the wall opposite her is a long mirror, her sorrowful reflection staring back at her.

The cheap, black plastic handle of her weapon slips out of her sweaty hand. The sound of its steel blade hitting the floor echoes through the hall. Hannah doesn't bother to retrieve it. Instead, she crawls strenuously to the end. She's focused on moving fast and trying to block out her pain and doesn't notice when her loving kidnapper runs up in front of her with a loud, “Boo!” Moments later, Hannah realises that the person isn’t her kidnapper at all. It’s a woman who happens to be wearing the same apron as the man. A woman who looks to be close to her age, with long, blue hair which seems to have streaks of dried blood, and large, bulging eyes.

“Times up, love.” The woman smiles along the odd clapping of her hands. “Let’s go now, we have work to do.”