Serialised

by Marvin Reif

The blood covers the floor. I tilt my head as I follow the thick red liquid slowly spreading, still partially sedated from the injected tranquilliser. I can’t scream, a thick red towel spreads my lips apart, every sound caught in its fibres. However, that isn’t the only reason I find myself unable to scream. Deep down, I know I don’t want to scream. The scenery before me is too intriguing, too raw, too natural. I can’t disturb this macabre entertainment, for which I have a front-row seat.

          His back is turned, and my thoughts are singularly focused on pressing the small recording button on my smartwatch. I bend down, my nose slowly pushing the small bright button. The body on the floor still commands his attention. The murderous hands are focused as they retrieve the knife and place towels on the floor to soak up the spilling essence of life. A routine that has most likely established itself over the last few months or is the result of years of mental practice. His terror has haunted this city for the better part of a year. He is carefully aligning the body before my eyes. A dream come true, not yet a nightmare.

          "It's almost sad that you are joining me so late in my career." The genuine sorrow in his voice takes me off guard. "You should have witnessed my first attempts. Have you ever seen a giraffe taking its first awkward steps? That baby would be a sophisticated Olympic sprinter in comparison to me…" He turns around, a weak smile on his face, eyes unfocused, his mind caught in reminiscent bliss. His voice is high and contemplative, like an artist caught in the creation process. I feel terrible that my presence interrupts his usual ritual.

          "Would you like to hear how I created my first few projects?" His knife traces through the air, a tiny silver streak accentuating his speech. I nod. "How rude of me." He steps over, conscious of the forming puddle, evading it effortlessly. "It must be hard to breathe with that towel." He finally frees my mouth, with a few fibres of the old towel remaining. He considers the towel momentarily before bending over the body, placing it as a halo around the figure's head. "You know, during my first ever kill, I used white towels." I chuckle as he shakes his head, a wide grin spanning its length. "You can't imagine the mess it made in my washing machine. Had to throw the whole thing out."

          "Why?" The words form and venture forth without my brain having time to consider the situation.

          "It kept on staining everything. No matter how often I let it run empty, everything would come out bright pink." His hands open as he speaks. He is very expressive in general. His hands move even at the smallest of utterances. "Well, at least now I got a couple of pink shirts." We laugh for a minute, and then he slaps his thighs. "I better get on with this." He points at the body.

          I nod, trying to raise my tied hands to motion towards the body. "Oh, yes, please. I don't want to be in your way." I try to shift myself out of his way. Nobody wants to interrupt Picasso when inspiration hits him. This is much the same. "I'll just silently observe if you don't mind."

          "Not at all." A hand waves my concerns away. "Could you maybe hand me some of those towels, though? The blood mustn't spill everywhere."

          I try my best to reach the stack of cheap, carmine towels. My efforts are thwarted by the bindings around my wrists and ankles. Undeterred, I strain against them, managing to grab a few of them with my half-praying hands. "You said your first few weren't as sophisticated?" The question burns on the tip of my tongue.

          He holds his hand out and grabs the air, my hands unable to extend far enough for a clean handover. "I forgot about those." He slaps his forehead overdramatically. "Let me help you." He loosens the restraints a bit, allowing for marginally more movement, before taking the towels. "I'd be glad to tell you if you're interested." He stops for a moment, regarding the towels. "It's a shame that I have to get rid of the towels. Not good for my environmental footprint."

          "Are you trying to offset it? Maybe plant some trees or donate some money?" Sustainability is essential in all aspects of life. I wait anxiously for the answer, hoping that he acknowledges this fundamental threat to existence.

          "Of course, I do. Do you think I'm a monster? Usually, the end of their polluting life would account for the spent emissions, but I still offset all my equipment. Sometimes their pockets donate a few Euros to the effort, but most come from my own pockets." Relief spreads through my body.

          "That’s good to hear. Did you know some people don't believe in climate change?" I’m ashamed of my naive, downright infantile question. Obviously, such an artist considers the environmental impact of his work.

          "Our friend over there was one of those cases. He even reposted some videos trying to convince his friends." He gives the body a mean-spirited kick, hoping it will transcend the veil. "I usually try to target people that deserve it, cancerous growths of our society…"

          "Like people that deny climate change or LGBTQ+ rights?" My face burns hot once I realise that I have interrupted him. "I'm so sorry." I launch into a barrage of apologies.

          "I will not rip your head off for interrupting me." Again, we both laugh. "Yes, those people are on the top of my list." The genuine appreciation in his voice, the sense of finally being seen for the artist he is, moves me.

          "So, tell me about your first project. Eight months ago, was it?" His exposed emotions inspire me to push the question, to ask about his first awkward steps towards greatness.

          "Enough of the teasing, I guess." He gives me a slight wink. "Yes, it was roughly eight months ago. Mary, was it right? Or was it, Miranda? I keep mixing up their names."

          "Mary, the one who was running for the conservatives for city council." I quickly interject, eager to demonstrate to him that I’m an avid admirer.

          "I started with such a high-profile candidate? City council member, in a town of thirty thousand, I wonder why it didn't make the international papers." His sarcasm leaves me unbothered; it fits his art, his larger-than-life status.

          "You made the national ones with it. That's quite an achievement for the first attempt." I hate myself for being so starstruck, unable to contain my excitement in his presence.

          "The attention was alright, but the execution… Phew." He lets out a prolonged whistle, gazing down at the body with its blood now seeping slower. "Nowadays I know I have to drain them and keep the blood contained in a small area." He points at the towels surrounding the body, forming a dam against the red flood. "Back then, I had no idea; it was messy, to say the least."

          "It couldn't have been that bad. Everyone is slightly disorganised at the beginning. Have you ever seen The Picador? Nobody would have thought that Picasso would ever become one of the greatest." I see a small appreciative smile form on his lips, and my heart jumps, pumping rapidly at the certainty that I have validated him.

          "You’re too kind to me." He brushes away my flattery and bends down, marking the limbs for later dismemberment. "I didn't know what tool to use with Mary. I tried using an iron rod initially, but it didn't work. She kept on breathing - given I pounded her chest with it, so no real surprise there. - Now I know that you always go for the head with blunt objects."

          "A common mistake. All of them left behind at least temporary survivors." His humility in describing his first work is intoxicating for me. The reflective nature of his retelling is the sign of a true master.

          "I know, but everyone has this misguided idea of being perfect from the beginning. I was no exception. I thought that my first - project, you called it?" I nod in agreement. "That my first project would be perfect. No mistakes, just clean and simple prevention of catastrophe."

          "Prevention?" I’m surprised by the additional layer this could open up for me.

          "Yes, catastrophe. A climate denier on the city council could be called that, don't you agree?" His piercing eyes are fixed on me. My eyes strain to identify their colour, yet they are too far for me to determine. A minute detail that would generate immense buzz around my podcast.

          "I fully agree with you, it is better for her to die than the environment. Do you think your desire for perfection may have made you chaotic?" I have overplayed my card. He spins around, something akin to hatred in his eyes. Fast steps close the non-existent gap between us, and a knife is drawn and pushed against my pulsating artery. My desire to discern his eye colour is fulfilled in the most intimate fashion.

          "Do you think this is an interview? Do you think you can just keep on interrupting me? Let me be very clear. I was never chaotic in my method, never disturbed in what I did. Don't you compare me to those monsters that are categorised; I am beyond a category." His breath has a sweet, sickly odour, a mixture of stale tobacco and three cancelled dentist check-up appointments. I hate unpleasant smells; they usually make me gag, but to my surprise, I don’t mind his breath.

          My brain races, desperate for the conversation to continue, to gather more material for my eventual ascent into podcast olymp. "I didn't mean to categorise you. I'm sorry if my poor choice of words offended you. I merely meant to say that you weren't as meticulous as later on. Trust me, you're far beyond categories." My thick layer of flattery seems to smooth his agitation. His mouth closes, containing the miasma once again behind teeth and flesh.

His expressionless dark green eyes consider me for many heartbeats before finally lighting up, regaining their friendliness. "If you look at it like that, you could say I was disorganised." The admission comes slowly, tentatively, as if he considers every single letter of the sentence. "Where was I again in my retelling?" He is mentally grabbing for the end of his tale. "Ah, yes! I tried with an iron rod, but it didn't work. So I tried with a hammer. Square on the head, a few good swings." He mimics his movements, indicating where it had touched poor Mary's skull.

"And that worked right? I remember that the report mentioned something about blunt force trauma." I fail to impress him with the information I had gathered from my independent research.

"I don't know which report you read, but blunt force trauma was definitely not the cause. She still moaned after I hit her a couple of times. I had to slit her throat. All the way down to her vertebrate. Made quite the mess, let me tell you." He shakes his head again and quietly curses at his earlier self.

"Really?" I can’t hide my surprise; a triumphant smile forms on his face. All the police reports focus on the bludgeoning, not the cut throat. I wonder how such a detail could be overlooked.

"Yes, that's why there was blood everywhere. My whole body was showered, and I grabbed whatever towels were around. Even cut myself a little by accident." He shows me a small scar as proof. "Some of the blood they found was mine. Thank God I'm not in the database."

I sharply suck in air in response to the scar. "That looks nasty. Must have bled quite a lot." A grunt is all the response I receive. He is far more occupied with his assortment of knives. "What did you do with the body?"

          "Shouldn't you know that? Even the papers reported on that. I dismembered her and dumped her body across the town." He continues running his finger across the polished stainless steel. My head goes scarlet from embarrassment. I knew I had skipped some facts to be the first one to publish a series. "I was an amateur; I just dismembered her in her flat and packed the parts up in some garbage bags."

          "That doesn't really sound amateurish to me." I say, encouraging him to forget about my small mess-up with the dismemberment. I don’t want to seem like some amateur sleuth, wholly unworthy of his presence.

          "Oh, it is if you aimlessly drive around with the bags in your trunk. There were five police cars that passed me that night; all of them could have stopped me, but none did." He pulls out one of the knives, holding it up high to study his reflection in the steel. "Their obliviousness gave my whole operation a sense of divine endorsement." The knife pans the room.

          "When did you stop dismembering them? Now you display them to form some occult symbols." I shuffle closer to him, still forced to my knees by the bindings, to record his voice as clearly as possible. Finally, I can solve the mystery everyone was trying to solve. I can almost touch him.

          "I stopped with some of them. The ones that deserve a grand display, the ones whose death means something. But most of the fun kills I still dismember and scatter." He turns around, slitting my throat with one swift movement. "You podcasters get bolder and bolder, trying to interview me and assume you’d see another morning."

Marvin is a 26-year-old student, originally from a tiny village in South West Germany, now living in Amsterdam. Fed up with the Top-10 lists, he is now trying to make his way as a fiction writer. If he is not writing then his three cats will keep him busy. He has been previously published in Close to the Bone and Down in the Dirt.

Adrian Amiro-Wilson is a macabre artist, jewelry maker, and horror enthusiast out of Texas.