The merrygoround

Foaming at the mouth, I stabbed her. Screams of passion turned to terror and echoed through the basement, staining the walls of the house like the blood on my hands. Once, twice, a third time, I plunged my knife into her perfect chest. It was when she finally stopped moving that I had my true fun of the evening.
         The concrete walls were the only witnesses, and even with the light dangling from the ceiling they hid themselves in darkness. No they did not want to see this. I rolled her over, the crinkling plastic singing in the silence; I admired its silk feeling and milky complexion. With my knife I started my art. Her back my canvas. I etched the sun just over the right shoulder, at the base of her spine I carved myself. They were both crude stick figures, made from my childish energy. On her perfect skin it was a masterpiece Davinci couldn’t surpass. Between me and the sun I decided to draw angels to sing my greatness into this morbid heaven. On the third one my blade slipped adding an unwanted line, an error in the beauty.          
         Now it was my turn to scream, it rivaled her last breathe. The light ran away afraid of my dark rage. I assaulted my art, stabbing it again and again. A thousand jabs and a million hours must have passed before the light returned. I was kneeling over her mutilated body, short of breath holding the knife in both hands. Tired I rolled over and lay next to the art.  With one arm wrapped around her I slept accompanied by wonderful dreams.          
         The sun was creeping through the tiny windows. A pure blue light floated inches below the ceiling, kept at bay by the still lit lamps. My mind had settled and my friend and stiffened, now it was clean up time. I first took a towel from the stairs and wiped off the red gel from my body. When happy that I wouldn’t track any upstairs I went, showered and dressed. Stepping back through the kitchen to the basement I grabbed an apple from the counter.  Back in the basement I surveyed the scene. The centerpiece was her body on blood stained plastic sheets; her flesh was pale probably cold. It no longer had the warmth it had last night. Her back ravaged by six inches of stainless steel, toes curled in terror. Her hair was no longer blonde and wavy but looked like an old dirty mop. In the far corner of the room where I kept a small closet I retrieved two large black lawn bags a pair of garden scissors, pliers and my mother’s antique jewelry box. A tiny oak box with dirty bronze corners and a silver latch.
         I knelt on the side of her looking into her colorless eyes. They were frozen in the fear and realization of my talent. I slowly removed each of her teeth. Thirty two pearls of manufactured perfection. With my scissors I cut the tips of her fingers off and the whole of her thumbs. I gathered them up and placed them inside the box on red velvet lining, they were more beautiful then any stone my mother had ever rested in it. Finally I used my knife and with shaking hands peeled off of her ankle a tattoo of a cross. When done I deposited it over her fingers. In the box I also put the pliers and knife forming an X over her identity.  Now I carefully wrapped the shell in the bags and taped them shut. I carried the package upstairs, back through the kitchen into my bare living room and out the side door into my garage. I opened the trunk of my car and placed her gently in.
         Back in the basement I collected her clothes and threw them in her shadow. I stripped and left my clothes there as well. Then I rolled up the plastic and tied it into a bundle bringing it upstairs and packed it into my fire place. In the kitchen I took a sponge soaked in bleach and retraced my steps, searching for spots I might have dropped. When darkness came I lit my fireplace and watched as it erased her. I got her purse from my bathroom and emptied it into the fire. A student id, a license, three pictures, a tampon and some condoms. All fed to the fire. When it was all good and burned I went to bed.          
         It was 4:07 pm when I woke and dressed in my black suit. I ate a bowl of lucky charms with a cup of coffee. I went to my car getting ready to leave. I was nervous, hands sticky with fear. I pushed the button for my garage door and with a depressed moan and rattling of chains it opened. I started the car and backed out slowly, my neighbor was outside she ran from her porch toward the fence waving franticly. I rolled down my window; smiling.          
         “Have you seen my daughter?” Her face was strangled in anticipation, her voice quivering in emotion, “she hasn’t been home in two days.”
         “Which one dear?” How could she not specify she had two?          
         “Tabbie, the blonde one, she hasn’t called.”          
         “Sorry, I’ll let you know if I see her.” I rolled up the window and drove out of the driveway, leaving her to age in her panic. As I switched for reverse to drive there was a thud from the trunk. Tabbie your moms looking for you I chuckled. I drove for hours stopping only for gas. A while into the night I found the place. A dark parking lot outside Page’s bookstore. I found a rusty ’71 Monte Carlo. It was quite easy to get into. The door came right open. It reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. From my trunk I took my cargo, slipping it into the passenger seat. My pretty perfect present. I gave a scan for people, still none. There wouldn’t be, not here at 2:09 am. I grabbed the gas I and doused the seats. With a quick toss of a match I was off. I saw the fire burning as I drove away. Flames dancing in the morning darkness.
         Now there was just one thing left to do. After my long drive home I slept again. There where no dreams this time. I spent my day waiting for night happy to almost be done. My head was pounding in a few days it would be back to work, vacation over. When it was dark enough I retrieved the jewelry box and stepped out my back door. I hadn’t realized it had snowed, amazing what you miss. The snow an opal white laid flat and perfect over the land.  I took a stroll through my back yard into the woods and down to Mystic Lake. The air chilled me, numbing my hands. This was normal for February and thankfully it kept the lake frozen. I walked out onto the ice about twenty feet. With the knife from the chest I cut a whole through the ice. It took longer then I thought my hands didn’t want to cooperate. In my mind I felt as if I was being watched, impossibility nobody but me would be out here. I got the whole done looked at her teeth and fingers one last time and kissed her dried tattoo. I closed everything up and slowly dropped the box into the ice. I was done. The wind whined trough the trees almost like a scream and it was followed by a large crack.          
         The cold water rushed over me, before I could get a hold of the situation. The water pushed into my lungs stabbing like a billion tiny knifes. I couldn’t scream as I struggled to get up, the ice felt like strong hands on my ankles and after a few eternal minutes the cold water won. Dragging me under.