The Last Victim

The Last Victim

           I’ve heard people say that she was just the last victim, the final woman murdered by a monster. I tell those people that they’re wrong. Zari was anything but a victim; I mean, she was so passionate and determined with everything she did. Once she put her mind to something, even I couldn’t stop her. But then, I realize they’re right. She faced someone she couldn’t beat, and she fell victim to a monster.

           I can still remember everything about her: the smell of her perfume, the softness of her hair, the way her lips quirked when she smiled. When I first met her all those years ago in my freshman year of college, I knew I would love her forever. Something about her was magnetic; I had to have her. I was lucky enough that the feeling was mutual.

           Zari was fascinated by philosophy and hypotheticals. She asked questions I could never answer—I’m not sure anyone could. I think she made me better for them; she ignited my own curiosity and the need to learn more, too.

           “Alex,” she once began, “what do you think happens when we die?”

           “I don’t know,” I said with a shrug as I played some stupid Xbox game.

           She sighed. “Really, Alex? I want your opinion!”

           “I don’t know,” I repeated with slight irritation. My response was met with a pillow to the side of my face. I paused the game and turned to my lovely girlfriend with a pointed you-are-such-a-child look. “Maybe we go to Heaven.”

           “You don’t believe in God.”

           “Christians do,” I countered before standing up to approach her. “I guess I’ve always thought the idea of reincarnation is kind of cool.”

           “What, like, if I died tomorrow, I would come back as a baby?”

           “No, I think it would be more like…if I got hit by a car, maybe I would come back as a dog or something, so I could experience life through the perspective of something else entirely.”

           “If reincarnation is real, I’d like to come back in the form of rain.”

           I couldn’t help but laugh. “Rain? That’s not even alive!”

           “It’s not alive in the traditional ‘heartbeat and blood’ sense, but I think ‘alive’ is relative. Rain has a mind of its own—one minute, it’s pouring, and the next, it’s light. Couldn’t you say that, just maybe, that’s like a person cycling through moods? I know I can go from raving mad to calm and happy in a few seconds.”

           “You don’t have to remind me,” I joked, earning a glare. Shaking my head, I continued, “I guess you could have a point.”

When I heard about the first murder, I wasn’t really bothered. I know that sounds awful, but people die all the time, right? I came home from work as casually as I always do, fully prepared for my usual “Welcome home, babe,” and realized something was off the moment that didn’t happen.

           “You okay, babe?”

           She nodded and smiled quickly. “Yeah, it’s just…did you hear about the murder? Jenny Clarke, her name was.”

           “Look, I know we just moved here, but don’t murders happen all the time in this city?”

           “Well, I guess so, but…” she glanced back at the TV, currently running a commercial. “Did you hear what he did to her?”

           “The murderer? No, I honestly didn’t pay it much attention.”

           “She was stabbed in the stomach multiple times, and he-he cut off her tongue.” She shivered, and I took her hand soothingly. It was strange to see her so worked up over this since I’d never really seen her afraid of something like this before.

           “Why is this bothering you so much?”

           “That doesn’t bother you? He cut out her tongue!”

           The imagery came to me, and I had to fight the urge to shudder. For Zari’s sake, I needed to be calm. “I admit, it’s gross, but sick bastards do stuff like that. We hear about it over the news all the time.”

           “Alex, she looked just like me!” she exclaimed suddenly and appeared simultaneously relieved and terrified. It was like she wanted to say it since I walked through the door but doing so made it real. “She was in her mid-twenties, Caucasian, brown hair, hazel eyes. The investigator they interviewed said that she was likely attacked while she was running…”

           I chewed my lip. “We’ll be extra careful, okay? I’ll be with you wherever you go if that’s what you want—”

           “No, no!” She shook her head. “I don’t want to lose my freedom just because of some psycho.”

           “But you just said—”

           “No,” she said decisively. “I’m not a damsel in distress, Alex.”

           I chuckled. “There’s the Zari I know.”

It only got worse from there, though. More bodies popped up, all with the exact same death, missing their tongues, and disposed of on a nearby trail. Apparently, they were all found in red summer dresses and a full face of makeup. Local police warned young women who matched the victims’ physical descriptions to go nowhere alone.

It started to creep me out, too, but I tried to act natural around Zari; she, however, was near panicking. Whenever she went for a run, I would tag along. I joked that these murders might just be enough to get me in shape; she wasn’t amused.

I woke up from a nap one dreary afternoon when I wasn’t feeling so well and checked the time: 5:55 p.m. Zari should be home, I thought. I extracted myself from bed and searched the apartment. When I realized she wasn’t back, a cold fear settled in my stomach.

I called her friend and coworker that usually left their job with her. “Grace? Is Zari with you?”

“What? No,” she answered, the sound of something sizzling on the stove in the background. “You mean she’s not home? We left work half an hour ago.”

I officially started to panic. Without any consideration to my shoes, my fatigue, or the continually worsening weather, I dashed out of the apartment. I ran to my girlfriend’s car in the lot, thinking Zari might still be in there. Maybe she was just so tired that she fell asleep, but she wasn’t there.

“Zari?” I called frantically. “Zari!”

I heard police sirens in the distance. No, no, no. Not Zari.

I continued to look around as the light drizzle became a steady pour. Eventually, my body seemed to give up, and I fell to my knees and called out for Zari until my voice was hoarse. At least someone had called for help, I thought, as the sirens closed in. I heard doors slam and police shouting, “Put your hands up.”

I stared into the distance, wondering what became of my girlfriend, the woman so precious to me. Guns cocked in the background; police officers surrounded me. “I won’t ask again. Put your hands up.”

My eyes fell to the concrete, where I saw a stream of blood coming from my clothes, my hair, and my skin. “What for, Officer?”

“You are under arrest for the murders of Jenny Clarke, Sarah Newman, Rebecca Kish, and three other unidentified women.”

In the distance, I heard someone shout, “We’ve got a body over here!”

“My girlfriend is missing,” I said absently.

“You have the right to remain silent,” said the officer as he handcuffed my hands behind my back and forcing me to my feet. “Anything you say can and will be held against you in the court of law.”

The rest of his speech blurred with the sound of my footsteps and the patter of the rain.