The Fundamentals of Murder (In Our Own Eyes - Klaudia)

Klaudia
There is this bar, not far from my house, not close to the beach, but just in between. It’s a dive bar called The Square Bar, but it is obviously less then so. Let me explain my appearance, as it is a contradiction to that of the “should be dead or missing” crowd. I have mid-shoulder-length hair of auburn. My body is in perfect shape. Even the plainest of clothes I wear turns heads at any event. I guess this transformation, from the normal figure of my childhood body to that of perfection happened when I was in my teens. As I grew older, I was forced to quit high school because of this. At the time, I had fallen for a man who was much older, not attractive but had the money to make me famous and, at the time, that was all I wanted. He was my tutor and probably led me to my career of choice now, but he fucked like a beast in some wild jungle, leaving me with marks. I used this to set up a very successful blackmail which has kept me afloat, now and probably for the rest of my life. Back to The Square, though, where the odd-looking men at the small dive bar don’t know what to do with themselves. I turn slightly to the right, my body in perfect alignment with my turn. You wouldn’t find an exterior imperfection; it is as if I were a statue in history that would live on forever. My body shape, that which one would try to recreate perfectly over and over again, but never quite get right. This is not me being vain. These are simple facts. I would have been happy with any body that I was born with; it just happened that I got this one and, for that, there must be some reason. Today, I am only at the dive bar for a second or, should I say, ten minutes max. I down four shots of tequila before I get back into my Mercedes (thanks to Reverend Paul), which is holding the most precious gift. Earlier that evening, while I walked next to a local middle school on one of my typical nightly walks, I stumbled magically upon Fara, a 12-year-old girl whose pupils grew as her puppy dog eyes looked up to reach mine. It was a beautiful moment. I smiled back as if to say: “Yes, you are beautiful, as well.” Briefly, we engaged in an innocent flirtation that held no words, but only a moment. And now little Fara is packed tightly in my trunk, alive, but not as aware as one normally would be. What a treat it is to me, for I have a grand surprise for Fara; something that would change her life forever. I slam my last shot of tequila in the dingy bar, then, looking ever so bold and unapproachable, exit gracefully. When in my car, I turn down my normal opera blast to hear for the slightest movement from Fara in the trunk. Anything to know she is at least alive and conscious. Once satisfied with a couple thuds coming from behind, I give my engine a little roar and take off to my home by the beach.

Inside, the place is immaculate. There is no visual threat, nothing too shiny or imposing upon the eyes. The place seems rather home-like; a comforting, spacious lower apartment by the beach. The air, still and warm, makes my eyes close momentarily as I drag poor Fara in. She is tied up and gagged, but not hurt. I’m sure her poor brain is spinning, lost in endorphins and delusion. She must be contemplating reality. She struggles a bit, but it is useless and actually turns me on with hopes of dedication to survival. This will make for a more challenging conquest and a chill runs from my neck to the base of my tail bone. I want to ask her a million questions. I want to ask her how it feels. I want to tell her she will be dead in ten seconds, just to see what her eyes would project, but I know protocol and keep my mouth shut. I pull her to a small, dark room. The Punishment Room is what Jenn calls it, though really it’s nothing of the sort. When Jenn and I first got the apartment, there was an extra bedroom with no window. We thought of making it an office, but upon discovering each other’s interest, decided to make it a dungeon of sorts. I would say more of a relaxation room, like for yoga. Jenn called it the Punishment Room after our first fight. Jenn had come home late from work and, in the beginning, I had many fears about love, and was scared to actually be in love. It was hard for me to trust her because of that and, one thing leading to another, Jenn threw me in the room for almost half a day. I had needed it and, by all means had deserved it, but never again did she do anything to hurt me. I lay Fara down lightly against the wall to position her view correctly. For a moment, I stare admirably at her fragile figure and smile. Still wordless in the cold room, I walk over and open a small cooler,extracting a boy about the age of 6. He has brown-blond hair,his face is pale, and, from the look of it, I may have over-dosed him with sedatives. He is completely naked and is curled up like a newborn fetus. Fara’s eyes widen. She completely freezes against the wall, no longer struggling, as she watches the boy’s slow breath and faint eyes. Wordless, silent, cold, and dark, I watch them both, looking eagerly from one to the other with a smile on my face, as if admiring my best accomplishment. I decide to make the room a bit lighter for my own amusement, but at the same time a bit blurred, so I turn on a stained single yellow light bulb that dangles in the center of the room. At first, Fara doesn’t notice what is pinned against the center of the wall by the stairs; her eyes are still fixed on the boy. Once getting visual satisfaction from the atmosphere, I grab the boy by his shoulders and move him to the wall. The stop sign! My favorite of all things in this room! Jenn and I had built a number of torture devices together. Although she was much better at the manual work, I designed this one. On the center of the northwall , there is a stop sign-shaped device. Of course, it is bigger then a stop sign, three feet across every which way. It is made of simple pipes welded together with no middle. There is, at the top, an extra piece of metal, about a foot long, protruding from the top. I had Jenn drill a hole in the poles at each angle and one from the protruding pole at the top. It is a beautiful thing, but I eye the structure, inspecting it for any imperfection. The boy closes his eyes and curls around my feet as if falling asleep. With a little nudge, I move him out the way and walk over to make sure Fara is in the right position to have a full view of what I am about to do. I decide to untie Fara, enough for minor escape, given some strength and mental strategy, but not enough for her to actually get away. To my surprise, she doesn’t even make an attempt. She is stunned and I can see her life flashing before her eyes. A situation so bizarre had undoubtedly never happened to her or had even occurred to her. If anything, Fara should watch this happen. Even if she were to die, which was very likely, then she should take in what she could and not struggle. This is life. I walk away, again amused by small Fara, and grab a large ice pick from the cupboard above the refrigerator. With one hand, I pick up the small boy by the neck. He is light, yet dead weight. He feels almost like a piece of meat rather then an actual person and I suppose at such a young age you are not a person yet, so my feelings are understandable. I proceed to align his neck with the protruding top of the octagon. The boy is so thin that I hold him with the ease of hanging a picture. My arm flexes as I hold the boy tighter in place. My biceps, I can feel, are working to their full extent and a small amount of sweat drips down my forehead as I hold the ice pick tightly in my other hand. After finding a good enough arrangement, I pull back the ice pick with all my might and stab it deep into the boy’s neck and through a large hole that is welded through the extended top part of the octagon. I only have one chance to get this right. Otherwise, the whole place would be a mess and Fara maybe would feel differently about me. Everything could have been ruined, but it doesn’t happen that way. Perfect. For a minute, the boy flinches. His eyes shoot open and his muscles flex, but only momentarily, as he closes his eyes and relaxes, seeming to accept this torture. The boy is now dangling by his neck like a rag doll pinned to the octagon. I smile a bit and wipe the blood from my face, then turn to Fara, who is wide-eyed and stiff, sitting in a bird-like position. I walk over casually, almost sexually, to calm her and gain her trust. I untie her completely and, for the first time since we met, I speak to her. “You say a word and you ARE him.” Fara’s face shows no reaction. It seems as though she won’t or can’t speak. She no longer looks afraid or upset and this gives me that warm feeling I sometimes get when Jenn brings home new presents. Satisfied, I turn back to the boy, who is not yet dead, but very close. He looks almost peaceful and relaxed, so I take the scene in like a painting. A beautiful picture of death, in its truest, most brutal form. First, I tie the boy’s waist up with a rope, then go behind the octagon and fumble a bit before hoisting his dangling body up with a rope and hook that is drilled into the wall. His shoulders I lay flat on the octagon, so that I can nail each into place at the point of the angle. This is no easy job, getting everything right. I stress a little and wish Jenn was off work to help. I let out a small sigh then proceed to nail his shoulders and elbows to the corners of the octagon accordingly. The center of the stop sign, which naturally curls his body to the side, leaves his legs dangling. I take the boy’s wrists and nail them to the lower corners, now turning him completely frontal, and unveiling all of his body.
. . .
In Our Own Eyes