Haunting-Adeline

“You’re a child rapist,” I say aloud, though he’s no longer capable of
hearing me. “Like I’d let you live,” I finish on a laugh.
I slide my knife from the socket, the suc on noise threatening to ruin
any dinner plans I had in the next several hours. Which is annoying cause
I’m hungry. While I do enjoy myself a good torture session, I’m definitely
not a dickhead that gets off on the sounds that accompany it.
The gurgling, slurping, and other weird noises bodies make when
enduring extreme pain and foreign objects being plunged into them is not
a soundtrack I’d ever fall asleep to.
And now for the worst part—dismembering it into bits and pieces and
disposing of them properly. I don’t trust other people to do it for me, so
I’m stuck with the tedious, messy job.
I sigh. What is that saying? If you want it done right, do it yourself?
Well, in this case—if you don’t want to get caught and charged for
murder, dispose of the body yourself.
It feels like ten o’clock at night, but it’s only five P.M. As fucked as it is
a er dealing with human body parts, I’m in the mood for a mean ass
burger.
My favorite burger joint is right off of 3 rd Avenue, and not too far of a
drive from my house. Parking is a bitch in Sea le, so I’m forced to park a
few blocks away and walk there.
A storm is rolling in, and soon sheets of rain will be descending on our
heads and shoulders like icepicks—typical Sea le weather.
I whistle an unnamed tune as I walk down the street, passing shops and
an array of stores with people bustling in and out like a bunch of worker
ants.
Ahead of me, there’s a bookstore lit up, the warm glow shining onto the
cold, wet pavement and invi ng passersby into its warmth. As I near, I
no ce it’s packed full of people.
I spare it a single glance before moving on. I don’t care about fic on
books—I only read the ones that are going to teach me something.