Lucy Deluca

The blood dripped from my dagger, turning the waxed linoleum floor crimson. The smell of copper and metal made my nose wrinkle, and I desperately wished for a pair of nose plugs. Maybe I would start carrying those around with me.

I stepped over the twitching body that took up most of the kitchen floor and went to the sink, washing off the dagger and my hands. I waited for the water to wash the blood down the drain. I sighed with impatience and displeasure at the thick dexterity of blood. Killing was the fun part, but the blood drove me mad. It was just too messy.

A pleading, strained voice interrupted my thoughts, "Please," I turned to the person lying on the floor, her body straining in a desperate attempt to survive. At times like these, a person would do anything to preserve their life. Her golden blonde hair lay matted and sticky against the bloodied floor, and spots of red dotted her face. I walked over to her and slid my dagger into the built-in sheath hidden in my boot. I squatted down and peered down at her, reveling in my victory.

"Jessica," my voice was soft and sweet, almost nurturing, "Just let it come easy. Your whole life everything just came so easy to you. Filled with so much frivolity and materialistic needs, your existence was nothing." She peered up at me with terrified blue eyes. My voice suddenly lowered and turned icy, "Even in death, you're still the same superficial bitch that you always will be. I hope the afterlife won't be as giving as this one." As if on cue, her eyes glazed over, and her body stilled.

I stood up straight and went through the apartment, finally reaching the safe in the closet. In it was a nice sum of a thousand dollars, and I stuffed it in my pocket. I would put it away in my bank account for a rainy day.

I went to the front door, checking if I left any traces of myself behind. I was wearing gloves, so no fingerprints. Check. My weapon of choice was hidden safely in my boot. Check. I smiled. I was nothing but careful, and that's what kept me from being sent to death row. I opened the door and half stepped out, looking back at Jessica Winthrope, beloved fashion model of New York, and my fucked up mind's latest victim.

I suppose that I could tell you my name. But then I would have to kill you. Ha, just kidding. Maybe. The name plate on my desk reads "Lucy Morris". But I often wonder who I really am, since I am not simply Eden Morris, a girl who manages computers and information specialists. No, I'm the unknown figure who's splashed across the newspaper headlines and breaking news reports of New York City. I'm the infamous serial killer, who for three years has been painting blood across the city, leaving no trace of herself for police to have any leads.

These are killings that have no rhyme or reason, and I'm not really trying to send any message. There is a sickness in my mind that I've had for my whole life. At first it was confusing and hard to deal with, as the urges were uncontrollable. No, I didn't kill just to kill. It goes somewhat like this: I'm walking down the street, minding my own business, thinking about work and other things. My eyes would be unfocused, not really bothering to pay attention to where I was going, as I did the same thing every day. And then my attention would snap back to reality, and I saw that face. I was suddenly bombarded with memories and experiences that were not my own. I knew everything about this person, including anything they have ever done. And I wanted to kill them.

Somehow they always ended up being a terrible person, and my mind felt that it was time to end their cruel existence. I couldn't stop myself, and sooner or later I would follow them home or into an alley or anywhere secluded tailing them would take me. I liked to do it slow, usually with my prized dagger, and watch the life drain from their eyes as they writhed in the agony I had caused them. It was one of the most enjoyable things in my life.

Yes I still loved, I still felt, I was still caring. I even acted like a normal woman of society. Basically it was the immorality in people that made me want to kill. The people who lived their lives without principles and only cared for materialistic things were the ones my mind sought out time after time again. The only thing that bothers me is how, just by one look, I know their life like I know my own. It was like staring at someone through their window without them knowing.

I wasn't trying to play god or anything like that. Hell, it was the farthest thing from what god would even begin to accept. That's the devil's work; punishing people. But each time I do take a life, I get drunk off the happiness it brings me to hear their agonized cries. Ah, now you must be wondering, "How does she get away with it?" That's because I'm smart. I think differently than other people (obviously), and before I used to think it was a bad thing; now I know that if I desired I could take over the city. But the most important thing was that I lied so well, I could most likely convince people that a purple unicorn had landed in my backyard and shit confetti.

I sighed, looking over my new temp's shoulder. Her lips were pursed in concentration, her brows knitting together. I watched the computer screen she was staring so hard at, and rolled my eyes at her rookie mistake, "You press the tab key. Then back up the driver and reset it." I tried to sustain a patient tone in my voice.

"Oh," she muttered, "Thanks, ma'am."

I stood up straight and turned to walk away, "Maybe you shouldn't lie in your resume that you know how to override a hard drive, Ms. Matthews. Another mess up and back to the temp agency you go." I grinned at my false warning when she gasped quietly.

I weaved through the aisles of computers and the few people working on them. Most others chatted obnoxiously with other co-workers as they packed up for the day. I looked at the clock once again and was happy to find that it was almost time to go. I quickly reached my office and shut the door. I fell into my chair, exasperated from the long day.

I hung my head, letting my thick, silky honey hair fall in my face. I gripped the arms of my chair tightly and breathed deeply to relax myself. The stress of managing everybody and making sure everything goes right is overwhelming. "Ms. Morris?" My head snapped up to see my assistant, Michael, looking sheepishly at me, "Do you need anything?" My full pink lips pulled up into a crooked grin, "Go home, Michael." He pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose and smiled.

"Thanks," He lingered for a moment and stared at me. I knew he had a thing for me, and I really wished I could reciprocate those feelings. But I just couldn't see him as anything more than a friend.

He sighed and left, closing the door behind him. I shook my head and stood up. An abrupt wave of dizziness sent me back down to my chair and I grabbed my trash can, getting sick in it. "Ugh," My shaking fingers clutched at my stomach with my free hand as I heaved again and again. Warily, I set the trash can back down. Sweat beaded against my forehead and I pushed my hair back from my face.

My mind became foggy, and I fervently tried to remember the last time my mind had flashed on somebody. It's been two weeks since my last kill, Jessica Winthrope. My body had started to go through this before. Killing people was my addiction, like nicotine or alcohol. My mind couldn't think about anything else until my hunger was satiated.

I looked at my watch and sighed happily. It was almost midnight, and I could finally get out of here.

Moving uneasily, I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder. Before I left my office, my eyes caught sight of myself in the mirror that hung on the far wall. Long hair disheveled, large blue eyes hungry, body lithe and ready for attack. It scared me how I looked sometimes. I almost reminded myself of a savage animal. The only thing out of place was my face. It was nothing special and sort of plain, but sweet. My skin was porcelain and my cheeks were naturally rosy, so there was no need for makeup. I only wore mascara and the occasional eyeliner. Dark circles resided under my eyes. I at least looked my age of 23.

The office door slammed behind me as I left in a fluster. There weren't any people in the office, and the lights were dimmed. The only person still there was Christina Matthews, the girl I had toyed with earlier. She had her head in her hand and was dozing off.

I walked over to her and gently put my hand on her back. Her body jerked a little and she looked up at me, "Oh, hello Ms. Morris. Um, I was just working on-"

"Go home, Christina. Get some sleep. You can finish up the reports tomorrow."

She gave me a grateful smile and shut down her computer. Flustered, she gathered up her things and started walking away from her desk.

My eyes followed her and before I could stop myself, I found myself calling her name, "Christina! Could you come back her for a moment?" She stopped in her tracks and I faintly heard her curse under her breath. She turned on her heels and sauntered back over to me.

"Yes?"

"Um," I didn't know why I called her over. She tilted her head at me.

"Are you okay, Ms. Morris?" Her tone meant to sound caring, but it came off tinged with annoyance.

"Yeah, I'm fine." And suddenly I knew why I called her over. I couldn't take it anymore. My head pounded and my pulse raced, and swiftly my hand found the large snow globe that decorated her desk.

Her eyes followed my movement, "What are you doing?" She was panicked.

"Shh," I muttered. "It'll all be over soon." What happened next blurred all together in a flash. I faintly heard the crack as I smashed the snow globe against the side of her head. Pieces of glass clung to her wound as she fell, hitting her skull again against the desk until finally falling to the floor. Her body lay still, and I stared down at her.

The reality of my quick decision came crashing down on me and I dropped my improvised weapon. The rest of the glass shattered and water exploded all over my feet and Christina's body. "Oh my god. What did I just do?"