Scorpion

Prologue

Illuminated with moonlight, her radiant eyes shine like a golden sun. She peeks up at me with awe and adoration. Her silky brown locks slip through the spaces between my fingers. My large hands smooth down her dress and move across her hips, up her back and cup her chin. Blush creeps across her lightly tanned skin; burning cheeks draw my lips close to her. I kiss her, lightly, but she draws more passion into it. As the kiss deepens, my hands take to her neck out of arousal. The deeper she kisses me, the harder my hands squeeze until she’s gasping, almost making my eyes roll in enjoyment. When she stops breathing, I frown, my satisfaction depleting. She’s still, rosy cheeks almost innocent. My face sets back into its calm demeanor and I begin my cleaning process, careful to remove any traces of me from her. I decide that I’ll leave her body in the park with my latest poem perched in her lap. It’ll be signed, The Scorpion.

Wayne

Released. They cannot hold me. There is no evidence, no proof. I am not the type of man who doesn’t cover his tracks. I keep alibi’s; I calculate. This arousal, this addiction of mine is dangerous. I’m smart enough to keep myself out of prison. Oddly, for some reason, it’s as if they know; so they will watch and watch closely, waiting for the day I am not as careful. It’s quite ironic how everyone knows it is me, yet they cannot prove it. A taunting game of back and forth.

In the interrogation room, I am questioned by eager authorities playing mind games waiting for my brain to lapse and my tongue to slip. They pray for confessions of the fifteen dead girls with poems in their laps. Beautiful girls, each with brown hair, brown eyes, full lips, and a petite build. Each sat propped in their destination with a typed poem, describing what I thought about them. I try to keep my eyes from glaring at the media surrounding me. Annoying pests they are. They ask if I am the Poet Slasher, the Creative Killer, whatever stupid names they want to tag on. I sign it The Scorpion, and that's what I want to be called, not that I want them to know it’s me.

I glance down at my hands, and a euphoric feeling clenches at my chest. The tenderness I feel when delicate fingers search for the intimacy and longing that I temporarily give them. Their red faces, flailing arms, and heavy gasps induce satisfaction in me. I sigh, sad that my only sense of pleasure comes right before they die.

Mia

It’s the eyes, it’s always something about the eyes. My fixations come seldom, but extreme. I love analyzing a man. I romanticize his features and the illuminating aura that seems only visible to me. I categorize and place men in lists, ranking them in my own accord of what makes them beautiful. Luckily my college has a variety of men. The athletic built man with an energized aura masked with a cocky attitude, compared to the thin artistic man with sweeping curls, an analyzing aura, with his body closed in on himself almost as if to keep everyone out.

My fixations started because of my first love in high school. A young freshman like me never needed a senior like him. He was described only with every cliche in every 90’s movie you’ve ever seen. Popular, great looks, a football captain with a string of drooling women following him down every hallway. Yet he was so different. He wasn’t a dumb jock like the movie stereotypes. He was smart, quiet, and astute. He always had this mysterious look like his eyes hid secrets. He was everything I never thought I would receive in a man. He was my sense of perfection, and then I lost him. The concussion from his last game left him brain dead, and ever since his parents pulled the plug it seems I’ve been looking for him in other people.

The television in our classroom gets turned up and I fix my eyes to focus in to the news. It’s then, an intoxicating feeling and fuzziness fluttered through my veins. I begin to panic because I immediately know what is to come, as if the swirling in my stomach wasn’t warning enough. I am completely transfixed. I wish I could look away and stop it, but my fixation was at full force. The man with confident strides catches my attention on the tv screen. Lips curved in a smirk, like secrets made them full. He had broad shoulders, a sharp intense jawline, calm penetrating eyes, and brown skin glazing in the sun. He rubbed his hand across the low-cut waves on his head. But it was his eyes, it was something about his eyes. They looked full of all types of secrets. When his name flashed across the screen, Elton Wayne, I immediately started googling away. He was 6”3, November 3rd birthday, 25 years old, with a bachelor's degree in psychology.

Now here is where my fixations become an issue. Regardless of a mans’ background, their job, education, or lack thereof, I am completely transfixed until I can kiss them. They could be a homeless man or my school’s dean, it will not end until I have latched onto their lips with mine. This fixation of mine has caused me issues in the past. Jumping on stage at concerts, Sneaking past the closed off VIP sections in clubs, locking the door with a faculty member. I could care-less who they were, I just wanted the obsession to stop. Yet, I have never craved a man who could potentially kill me.

A beautiful man like him could not possibly be a killer. Elton Wayne doesn't even sound like a killers name. Physically, he resembles a football player more than a psycho murderer. There is no fierceness in his eyes, just a logical presence. This fixation is worse than anything I have ever felt.

An insatiable need,

an intense desire.

Unfortunately, my latest fixation might just be a serial killer.