Perfect

Reedsy Prompts

Author: Kaamel Leonard

The Importance of the Senses

Prompt: Begin a scene with a non-visual sense. Describe a specific sound, smell, taste, etc to capture your setting, then expand the story out from there.

Perfect

Imagine the stench of a carton of a dozen rotten eggs. Now multiply that by one hundred. The taste is bitter, acidic. The consistency in my mouth is half watery half viscous with sand-like granules and some larger soft chunks of…something. Even if I could open my eyes, I wouldn’t have to to know where I am. I’m in a swamp. I mean I’m actually IN a swamp. I’m not in a boat and I didn’t decide to go for a swim. I can think of a lot of nicer locations to take a dip I promise you. I’m slowly drifting out to the middle of swamp with my hands and feet bound and plastic bag tied over my head. She did a poor job tying the bag which explains why I’m still conscious and the water creeping in. The bog envelops my body like an icy wet blanket.  I’m sinking. Drowning. I’m…losing. I never lose. Why now? How did this happen?

From the age of 11 months, I was told, I was labeled a prodigy. Apparently, that’s when I started walking. The way my father told it I was damn near sprinting across the room. By the age of two I was speaking in completing sentences and reading anything I could get my hands on. And yes, as you’re probably assuming, my school years were a breeze for me. I earned nothing less than an A in every class, participated in the most prestigious clubs and organizations and finished High School at the top of my class. I was considered a genius. Humble is a word some people used to describe me as well. After High School I spent a year volunteering. I was six months with M-Pact, a local organization dedicated to assisting and mentoring the homeless and six months volunteering oversees in Panama with our church introducing the less fortunate to the glorious word of our Lord and Savior. Naturally college was next. I completed my time there simultaneously earning my undergrad and Master’s with no worries of expense because of the scholarships of course. My parents were proud to say the least. Their one and only child succeeding as he always had. Perfect. I probably couldn’t fail if I tried. If I tried? So, there’s the birth of that notion.

Right after college I gained employment with the largest tech company in the U.S., Broca Tech. Within three years I quickly moved up the ranks from supervisor to management to Director of Operations. It was the fastest succession the company has ever seen and I accomplished this while remaining likeable and, yes, humble. Along with leading a successful division and working long hours, I found time to volunteer with various charitable organizations, and mind my own health by working out daily. It was eleven years ago that I also met my wife, Lisa, there. She was already employed there as an admin for the Director I had replaced. When I met her, I received her delicate hand into mine and was immediately taken by her short straight dark hair, petite frame, bronze skin and soft voice. She was by no means subordinate to me and she made sure to remind me every chance she got. She was no stranger to higher education and possessed two degrees as well. We fell in love and got married after ten months of dating. After our tropical island honeymoon, we bought a perfect house in a perfect neighborhood. Our friends and family couldn’t have been more ecstatic for us. No one was surprised by my good fortune. It was expected. This was my foreseen, by everyone I knew, future. I could do no wrong. It was only a week after moving into our new home that something changed. It was nothing obvious. That Tuesday was normal for me. The traffic lights were cooperating, the usual accolades from my work peers, and I even scored a free latte from my favorite coffee shop that morning just for being a loyal customer. That night, however, while at home with Lisa, there was a shift in the atmosphere. I complemented Lisa on the meal she prepared. It was nothing special. Baked chicken, asparagus and a baked potato. She smiled, walked over to me and embraced me. I returned the gesture warmly. Just then, the small whisper in the back of my mind somehow made its way to the front. I began to embrace Lisa tighter and tighter. She chuckled and attempted to match my strength. I squeezed harder and she began to groan and lightly pat me on the back signaling she had had enough. I didn’t stop. I increased the pressure. She struggled and writhed in my grasp but it was futile. My strength was greater. I could feel her lungs collapsing and releasing the little bit of air she had left. I felt a couple of pops that I assumed were her ribs. She went silent and eventually felt like a limp doll in my arms. My wife was gone and I felt…free. Free from this perfect box I lived in. Free from this annoying perfect perception people had of me. I had done something wrong for a change. Then the paradox presents itself. If I want to keep doing this wrong thing, no one can know about it. I’d have to keep it a secret. Sort of like a little gift to myself.

         I’ll spare you some details in order to keep this tale moving along. I got away with it. I told the detectives and her family she fell down the stairs. I was a prominent figure in the city. Everyone believed me and consoled me for a few months. I went back to work and lives were resumed. It wasn’t long before I craved that feeling again and I indulged. Fast forward to about a year later and I have a routine in place. At first it was one kill a month but after the third, I relegated myself to two a month. Only women. I’d pick them up at the same truck stop about ten miles outside of the city. Pick them up, take them the swamp, do the deed and bury them. I was the perfect executive by day and two nights a month I was…something else. Another nine years and many bodies later, I pick up my last potential victim. I should have been suspicious. She approached me and was a little too eager join me in my car. She looked familiar. I tried to give her my usual script that I was looking for some fun and I know a more secluded spot but she cut me off and told me to just drive. I brought her here to the swamp but as I shut off the engine I felt a tap on my thigh. I looked down and saw that a syringe had been plunged into my muscle. I can’t move. I can’t feel. My body slumps against the door. My vision and hearing are both still intact. She starts crying. “I found you. I got you. You killed my sister three years ago and I finally found you.” I couldn’t respond. Maybe that’s why she looked familiar but I don’t remember her sister. She exits the car and walks around to my side. She opens my door and I fall out. It’s a good thing I can’t feel anything because that might have hurt. I get dragged to the rear of the car where she opens the trunk and finds my rope and a small plastic bag. She ties my hands behind my back and my feet together. The ropes hurt which means the feeling is starting to return but I still can’t move. She ties the bag over my head and drags me to the edge of the bog. It’s about a two-foot drop into the bog and I feel her push my limp body in. So here I am…drowning…losing. Perfect.