He wandered around the empty house. OK, well, seemingly . . . empty house. She was still . . . around. Hidden. Somewhere. He grinned. Probably won't say much though. That damn mouth of hers, that annoying sound always coming out of it. One would only hear her silence, now. And feel the sheer joy of it.
Silence.
Quiet.
Nothing would come out of her damn mouth again.
Stupid girl. Stupid cow.
Had she honestly thought that they would be "forever"? Right. Forever. The two of them? What a laugh. She was always such a comedian. Kept him laughing. At least, at first. Lord knows that as the times flew, he became steadily annoyed by her. Increasingly angry.
Stupid girl.
Always running her mouth, that loose lip of hers always got her in trouble. But he always shut her up. Gladly.
Damn cow, damn fucking cow!
How the hell was he supposed to hide this? No way in hell would it even be possible. Everyone knew that she was always with him. Never left the house unless he was with her, never did anything without his OK. Stupid. God, how could he . . . wait, what was he saying? It was . . . it felt . . . great. More than great. Almost . . . liberating.
He felt . . . joy. Happy. Intrigued, even. His hands . . . around that throat of hers. Squeezing until every bit of life in her was gone. Sure, she tried to fight. But, he was just so much stronger than she was. Her body frail. She should have gone to the gym like he had suggested earlier on. Even taken some boxing classes or something. Ran, if nothing. Dumb shit. Didn't know anything. Thought that nothing would happen to her. "Things like that only happened to those stupid, unfortunate people. Not me. Never me," she would always say when he asked her about what he thought of the news. Deaths. Rapes. Murder. Robberies. He fought with everything inside of him not to laugh at her face, because, let's face it, she was stupid and . . . unfortunate.
He smiled, entering their bedroom. His, he corrected. His bedroom. She was . . . well, she was dead now. The dead can't claim over the living. He smiled, sitting down on the edge of the king sized bed, and laying down. He stared up at the ceiling. Red. He couldn't believe that he had let her paint their . . . HIS . . . bedroom red. Of all colors. Shit, why couldn't she have just left it alone. The white walls suited him just fine. But, no, she thought that it needed a little color. Stupid, he thought but then began to smile. The color . . . it reminded him of blood. Sure, maybe blood was a darker shade . . . but red. Red made him (made anyone) think of it. Of blood. He wondered how hers would have looked. Would it have been the same shade of red that the walls were covered with. Or darker. Maybe lighter. He didn't know. Hadn't actually seen . . . a lot of it to know. He was always queasy. But now, he began to wonder.
Maybe he should have stabbed her, slit her throat. That would have gotten her good and wet, soaked her with her own damn blood. She would have screamed too, tried to fight, maybe even tried to escape. Of course it wouldn't have done her any good. She was weak. Probably would have died right after the first penetration. He laughed.
It did feel good. Having to control someone else's life. Decided whether they lived or died. Made him feel like God. Maybe even better. He shook his head, maybe not.
A scream echoed through the quiet house. He sat upright. Who the hell, he thought as he jumped up and ran out of the room, but not before picking something up. He made his way into the room where he left her and found someone else there, too.
Her mother.
He smiled as he stood there and watched. His head tilted slightly to the side, and his eyes narrowed. She cried. Cried over the body of her daughter. His smile only grew. What a sight, he thought. His excitement growing. Someone was there to view his new work. It gave him chills, wonderful chills.
Her mother cried, whimpered, screamed. He didn't really care. She stood, her hands over her mouth, her eyes still on her dead daughter.
"No," she mumbled, shaking her head. Her whole body trembled. "No. No. No." She turned around, and was shocked to find him. He only smiled. "What . . . what happened? Jenny . . . she's . . . she's-"
"Dead?" He offered. He shook his head and rolled his eyes upward. "Yeah, I got that."
"Did you call the police? What happened? Who," the woman paused, her face contorted into fear and anger. "You son of a-"
"Uh, uh, uh, you shouldn't bring my mother into this." He reached behind him, at the back of his jeans, and held out something for her to see. She gasped at the sight of it, before taking a step back. He smiled at her. "Oh, I guess Jen forgot to tell you. Yeah, she bought it for a couple of Christmases ago. Still haven't used it. Wanted to, too, but couldn't. Never had it with me. It always stayed hidden in the bedroom. She probably thought I got rid of it. Would have too, because of my mom. She saw it." He shrugged and pointed the gun at his girlfriend's mother, "but hey, now is as good a time as any."
Her lips moved to argue, but no words came out.
"Cat got your tongue, Mrs. Lowe?" He chuckled. "Damn cats. Don't you hate 'em? Hated 'em all my life, but Jenny loved 'em. Only put up with it because of her. But, now that she's dead. I don't have to."
"I thought you loved my daughter."
"Such a strong word, love. Don't you think? Never did anyone any good," he sighed. "Just say hello to Jenny for me," he pulled the trigger.
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