{Talia}
It was happening again. That unquenchable thirst and hunger to hurt, maim, torture, and kill. I don't mind the feeling. In fact, I embrace it. What was alarming is the frequency of my dark urges.
Usually, I can go a minimum of three months before the surface of my deadly desire. Lately, I've been feeling the need to kill monthly. I had just killed someone three weeks and three days ago, and already I was searching for my next victim.
I don't have a rhyme or reason when it comes to my selection process, and I'm not some backward goody-two-shoes saint like Dexter Morgan. I really don't care who you are, what you've done, and who you have waiting for you back at home. It irked me when I'm close to finishing my victim off, and they beg and plead for me to spare them because they have children.
Fuck those kids. Kids are little shits, and as a public school librarian, I've been tempted to strangle a kid or two, but I won't. That's my only rule; I don't kill kids. It's not because I find it morally apprehensible. It's because kids make it too easy. Abducting a kid can be as simple as offering them a piece of candy, and they're ready to jump in the passenger seat of your car. My tastes center around a much bigger game.
When it comes to selecting my victims, it can be as easy as them making direct eye contact with me...and then they're mine and the hunt is on.
My last victim worked at a fast-food restaurant. I watched him for a few weeks and realized that he was responsible for taking the trash out every night. On the night of his demise, he took the garbage out like any other night in the dimly lit alley. He opened the dumpster, and I popped out like a jack-in-the-box and slit his throat. I took a few seconds to take a mental screenshot of the shock on his face as he desperately attempted to quell the bleeding.
I skedaddled out the alley and was bathed, in pajamas, and in front of the TV an hour later.
Television only serves one purpose for me; a learning tool. Television has taught me everything I needed to know about faking emotions. I study the actors' facial features and reactions to various emotions and later mimic the actors in my bathroom mirror. I practice my smile in the mirror, making sure that I'm not smiling too wide like some freakish birthday clown. My face is set in a permanent resting bitch face most of the time, but I've learned to control that better over the years.
Believe it or not, I have to practice laughing and giggling, which is the hardest because I don't know when it's socially unacceptable to laugh. It only took one time for me to learn that it's not appropriate to laugh at a funeral, but the way that woman flung herself on top of her dead lover's casket tickled me pink. The woman marched towards me and started yelling in my face in front of the entire congregation-wrong move, ma'am.
Later that week, they found her dead in her apartment. The detectives ruled her death a suicide due to the copious amount of pills she swallowed and her spouse's sudden death. She was yelling that the Lord should've taken them both at the funeral, so really, I was doing her a favor.
I wish I could say there was something extraordinary about me, but I can't. I'm a simple woman whose only enjoyment is killing and reading. Because I'm a psychopath, I don't have any friends, and I've never had a boyfriend. I aged out of foster care, and my origins are basically unknown. Maybe I'm not actually of this world? Perhaps I came from below? Whatever the case may be, I know that someone who gave birth to me didn't want me.
By the time I was five, I was labeled a potential psychopath by a child shrink, all because I killed the newborn kittens birthed behind the orphanage. The mother was a feral cat with the same idea my birth mother had and dumped her kittens and ran, leaving us with four mouths to feed. I was helping them by snapping their little necks. Thanks to me, they would never feel the pain of being abandoned. As a result, I was also deemed unadoptable.
I wish I could blame my psychopathy on some deep childhood trauma centered around physical, sexual, or emotional abuse, but I can't. Everyone, children, teens, and adults, were terrified of me and barely wanted to be in the same room with me, let alone close enough to strike me.
At the orphanage, I was homeschooled, had my own room, and ate separately from everyone else. I aged out, went to college, and now here I am, blissfully scanning returned library books. I stopped scanning when I noticed a throat clear in what once was my peaceful sanctuary.
"What can I do for you, Coach Delgado? I asked with the fakest smile I could muster.
"As you know, the school is hosting a movie night in the park this weekend, and I was wondering if you would like to go with me?"
It was no secret to the faculty and myself that the physical education coach had a crush on me. He always went out of his way to speak with me and would blush when I say his name. He would come to the library to "check out" a book but would spend most of his time talking to me about God knows what and would end up leaving empty-handed. I rarely ate my lunch in the cafeteria, but when I did, he always seemed to find his way to my table, and somehow, he magically had an extra slice of chocolate cake that he couldn't finish on his own.
The truth is, Talia Marie Reed has a weakness, and Coach Delgado has figured it out. I have a nasty sweet tooth that has led to many unwanted visits to my dentist. My dentist is probably the only person I won't kill. Where would I be without him?
"Please remind me what they're showing again?" I asked, feigning interest.
"Honestly, I don't know, but whatever it has to be PG or lower," he nervously chuckled.
"How lame. I was hoping for something with a little more blood and gore," I teased. Coach Delgado's eyes widened in disbelief.
"You? A horror fan? I don't believe it."
"Why not?"
"You just look so...innocent."
"Well, you know what they say...looks can be deceiving," I warned.
"They also say it's the quiet ones you have to look out for."
I hummed in agreement.
"Maybe we can go to the movie in the park and hit up the movie theater afterward and find something more suitable to your taste. It'll be a double feature, my treat."
"Promise me Skittles, and you got yourself a deal." I won't fuck him, but if it's free, it's for me.
"I'll go to Sam's Club and buy them in bulk if you want me to," he offered.
"You sound eager to please, Coach D," I seductively whispered.
His eyes ticked over my body, no doubt wondering what I look like naked.
"I'm definitely a giver," he confirmed.
"I'll keep that in mind, but to answer your question, yes, I'll meet you at the park."
"I can pick you up," he offered.
"That's not necessary."
"I get it. You're cautious, and you don't want me knowing where you live."
"Exactly."
Coach Delgado let out a chuckle as if I said the funniest thing in the world, but I wasn't playing. He probably already knew where I lived, or could easily find out. Addresses, like phone numbers, are considered public records, and it's pretty wild if you ask me. It's terrible for my victims but great for me.
Thankfully, the bell rang, signaling the start of the next period. "Damn, I gotta run. The fifth graders are playing dodgeball today."
"Sounds deadly."
"You have no idea," he huffed.
"See you later, Coach D."
"Please, for the love of God, just call me Vincent."
"I can do that, Vincent."
"Thank you. Take care, Ms. Reed," he said as he jogged out of the library. I shrugged my shoulders and continued to scan the returned books.that hawk mugged you
