The Longest Night

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

The song plays in the bar and I shake my head, “no, it’s not,” I whisper to myself.

We are in the midst of Winter and the Festive Season draws nigh. The Winter Festival is ancient. Older even than I.

These fragile and transitory beings that mill about me, in a frenzy of short lived lives, like to pretend thing are not as they are, they all put on an act, too afraid to show their true natures and actually be themselves.

I am a rock in this stream of frantic life. I watch them painting their faces with smiles and trying their best to get into the spirit of things, when all the while the dark and the cold encroaches, and death is all around them.

The dark brings with it fear, and they are right to be afraid. That is why they fill that dark with what light they can and celebrate being alive. They celebrate the moment and they live in that moment for tomorrow some of them will remain in the darkness and will never feel the warming sun on their faces ever again.

I have not felt that warmth for an age. The memory of it is corrupted and distorted, as though provided to me by something alien. I am supposed to believe that I was one of them once, but I doubt it. I cannot see myself as one of them, I can’t see myself in them, not through these eyes of mine.

Four days before many of these people will celebrate by overindulging themselves and greedily performing one of the seven deadly sins, I have my own celebration. I celebrate the night. The night is my domain, and today is the longest of nights.

The Winter Equinox is a day that I have made special and I will treat myself. I always treat myself on this day, as I celebrate the extra time I am afforded, and what better way to spoil myself than with an early dinner followed by a slap up breakfast.

I sit back and I read the room. I am very good at reading people and even after all this time, I quite enjoy this pursuit. People are open books to me and they are all of them fascinating in their own unique way.

I have a table in the corner of the bar and no one will join me. No one will even approach. I will not allow it and it will not happen. Nothing happens unless I permit it. I dial into their emotions and right now, they do not feel comfortable being around me. Sometimes I play with this control, lowering it so they come closer, then dialling it up so they roll away like the spring tide.

If I wished, I could lasso one of them and they would come right on over and take a seat next to me. There is something about this control that excites me, even after all of this time I have not grown tired of it. If I wished, I could get right inside one of their heads and see the world through their eyes. I do this from time to time, but I have to remember not to look upon myself. Never should I look upon myself. There is a reason why we are solitary and rare. We are not meant to see ourselves for what we are. These bright and ignorant beings surely don’t. They see what they want to see instead of what is right there in front of them. They lie to themselves constantly and I am the biggest lie they will ever tell themselves. The truth of me would end them in a thrice and that just would not do.

My treats arrive at the bar. Confident, proud and arrogant. Fixing the bar staff with predatory stares.

I watch them order their drinks. Then I watch them survey the room, and as they do, I open up my bubble to them and they come right in.

“May we join you?” she says.

“Sure, why not,” I tell her.

He is brazenly and lasciviously eying me and I turn his desire up a notch. Feelings and emotions unsight people and they cannot think straight when in the thrall of their feelings. I bring the darkness. I am chaos. For now some confusion will do, and after that they will do the rest. These two will do most of the hard work for me. I have seen them at their work for several weeks now and in seeing them, I marked them out for my special day.

“Can I buy you another drink?” he asks me as she takes a seat next to me. 

I nod and tell him which red wine I am drinking.

She sat next to me on the bench seat in an attempt to play with me. Anyone else would have sat opposite me. I will play along and let her have her game, it will distract her from the larger game that she is unwittingly a part of. She is my treat, but she believes I will be hers. People and their beliefs. They can be so amusing.

“I’ve not seen you here before?” she says.

“I’m new to the area,” I answer, “came here for a contract.”

“Oh?” she says.

“Yes,” I say, “I have a very dull job, so I thought I’d inject some fun into my life by moving somewhere else.”

“On your own?” she asks me.

“Yes,” I say, “my last relationship didn’t work out.”

None of my relationships work out. They fail before they ever begin, but she is not to know that. I move around regularly. I never stay in one place for long. Never have and never will.

I’m watching him at the bar. He has my drink and he’s about to add a little something to it. Just before he does, she presses her legs against mine in order to distract me. 

“Sorry!” she gasps, then she places her hand on my thigh and squeezes my leg, “Oops! I can be so clumsy at times.”

I turn to her and smile, I’ve seen what I need to see. I know that he has spiked my drink and that has confirmed their move and what part I am expected to play, “that’s OK,” I tell her and I slip my hand over hers so she knows it really is OK. I dial her desire up now and she can’t help but sigh. That’s good. She’s very receptive to me now. She’ll sleep walk through the rest of my celebration.

He returns with my drink.

“Cheers,” I say as I raise my glass.

There is an obvious and unnatural pause as they both watch me drink. Their breath catches as they anticipate this moment of my undoing. I enjoy myself as I turn the tables on them. Poor little flies, playing with the spider on her web. Still, ignorance is bliss, and people do ignorance so very well.

We indulge in idle chit chat and I give it a little more time than would be necessary for whatever they have given me to kick in. I have finished my glass, but neither of them offer to buy another drink. There is no point.

Suddenly, I giggle girlishly, “I… my oh my! That drink has gone right to my head!”

I roll my eyes and try to stand even though she is blocking my exit from the table. I slump back, “Oops!”

“Here, let me help you,” she says as she stands and reaches her hand out to me.

I take her hand and she leads me out of the bar. I go meekly and it is not until I am in the back seat of their car with him sat next to me that I speak again, “where are we going?” I say it in a slightly panicked way and I am rewarded with their hungry and heightened emotional responses as I play the victim for them.

“We’re popping home,” she says over her shoulder, “we can have another drink there.”

“Oh, OK,” I say placidly and distantly.

That seems to be the cue for him to come on to me. He is not gentle. He sees no need to be. I will pay this in kind later. He turns my head and kisses me hard. He is excited and I wonder if he will force himself on me here and now, but he does not. He thinks he has plenty of time for that later. There will not be a later. For now I am passive. I will go where this leads and I will decide when it is time to play my hand.

Soon enough we are pulling into a driveway. The garage door opens when she presses a remote fob and she pulls the car in and presses the fob to close the door. Only when it is closed do they lead me out of the car. Pretty slick, but then they have done this all before. I note the spade and wellington boots by the garage wall. Ready to go into the boot of the car when they are done having their fun with me. They won’t be needing those ever again.

“Why don’t you get the drinks, darling?” she says as she takes my hand, “I’ll show our guest around.”

Her tour isn’t very comprehensive, we are heading upstairs without looking at any of the downstairs rooms. She cannot wait to get me into the bedroom. Her breathing is shallow and she is flushed. They are going to get started right away then. No preamble, they are eager and hungry. So am I.

As we enter the bedroom, I see how this is likely to play out. How it was likely to have played out. She pushes me onto the bed and I giggle that girlish giggle again. She straddles me and pushes me so I am laying down on the bed. I’ve already seen the ties attached to the metal posts of the bed frame and under me I feel a plastic sheet. They’ve thought this through. Very practical.

She’s about to angle me around on the bed so she can secure my wrist when I interrupt the proceedings and I kiss her. I kiss her like she has never been kissed before and I play with those emotions of hers so her pleasure rises and rises. She is breathless and lightheaded when I roll her over and we swap places. She is still recovering from that extra special kiss of ours as I tie her to the bed. Wrists first, then her ankles.

“What are you doing?” she says as she recovers her wits.

I lean over her and stare deep inside her, “making you more comfortable,” I say, using her own words on her. The words she was going to say to me as she tied me to this bed.

“But…” she begins.

I place my index finger on her lips, “shhh! We’re going to have so much fun you and I!”

Her eyes widen as I use more of her words, the words she had intended to use on me. I think I may even have used her voice to drive my point home.

I reach under the pillow her head is resting on and I retrieve a pair of knickers. Her knickers. I use them just the way she had expected them to be used. It was his idea originally. He gets off on this as well. He gets off on all of this. Her not so much, with her it’s about him. She goes along with it because it pleases him. That’s some serious daddy issues she’s carrying around with her. She really should have seen a therapist.

“Hmmmph!” too late, she tries to cry a warning to her husband and partner in crime, but those knickers really are effective in stifling that cry.

I smile down at her, then I place a proprietorial hand on her thigh, mirroring her earlier gesture in the bar, “I’ll be back for you later. You’re breakfast.” Then I squeeze and I carry on squeezing until she bucks and thrashes under my grip, her eyes going wide and her cries of pain muffled by the underwear in her mouth.

“Oops,” I say as I withdraw my hand and examine the blood that my nails have drawn. I take my time licking and sucking the delicious appetiser from my fingers and she sobs as she watches me.

I reach down and trace my finger along the puncture wounds and bring it to my mouth to taste more of her. Then, my eyes never leaving hers, I lean down and lap at those wounds. It is all I can do to stop at that and pull myself away from her. Her fear and pain dizzy me and I want her there and then, but I don’t want to ruin my appetite and spoil dinner.

“I’ll be seeing you later,” I say and then I leave her and head downstairs.

I had toyed with awaiting his arrival. His seeing her tied to the bed would have told him all he needed to know, but this way she will stew in her imaginative juices. Her mind will take her to places that amplify her fear. She knows this can only end one way and she will live the nightmare until I end it.

He is confused as I walk into the kitchen. That is good. I can use his confusion. I am interested to see that he is only now assembling the knives and tools that he had intended using on me. I thought he would have a devoted kit that held some almost religious meaning for him, instead he prefers to use kitchen knives. They are wickedly sharp, the expensive Japanese knives that are all the rage with the middle classes.

“Where’s Melissa?” he blurts the words, his confusion giving way to panic.

“She’s having a lie down,” I tell him, “I think I wore her out!”

“You better not have hurt her, you bitch!” His face is a mask of rage and I see him more truly in that moment. This is the real him. This is the face all those women who have come before me have seen. He hates women. Melissa’s daddy issues are eclipsed by his mummy issues.

He lunges at me and plunges a large knife in my midriff. I watch him dispassionately as he pushes the knife upwards and twists it. He’s fairly good at this, but there is room for improvement, but no time for that now.

“You’re being a very naughty boy!” I tell him and I smile indulgently at him.

This causes my desired effect and he becomes even angrier. Anger is the best of the emotions. People are incredibly stupid when they give up their rational self and sell themselves to the devil that is anger. 

He is about to draw that knife out and stab me again, but I’m not going to afford him the time for that. Instead I reach my own hand out and ever so slowly, impossibly slowly and quite, quite carefully I push my fingers inside him. I go in through his gut and once I’m inside him I grab a hold of his insides and I squeeze. I squeeze just the same way that I squeezed Melissa, but this hurts a hell of a lot more.

It hurts so much that it chokes off his screams, instead his eyes bulge a question.

“Hurts doesn’t it?” I say in a voice which is barely above a whisper.

He nods affirmation.

“Now you know how it feels,” I tell him, “you know how it feels when the predator marks you and makes you their meal.”

I lean in and I smell his fear laced blood. I draw that bouquet in and I savour it, “you’re the main course and Melissa will be dessert.” I twist the truth a little there. He is my dinner and this longest of nights affords me plenty of time to allow this meal to go down before I breakfast heartily on this serial killer’s wife.

This is my Winter Festival. This is a tradition I began so long ago that it now feels it was always so. I take my time and I pick myself the most vile of human beings and I feast. I unwrap my first present in the evening and then I open my second present in the morning darkness. Killers such as these have such an exquisite flavour to them. They say psychopaths are emotionless, that is not quite right. These people are not capable of love. They burn away all the good emotions with their anger. All the different hues of rage and hate and a strange desire that spices all of that glorious blood pulsing around this man’s body right now. And of course, I top it off with a big dollop of fear.

“You smell so good,” I draw in lungfuls of his aroma, “I could eat you all up!”

And then I do just that. Taking my time and letting him feel everything. That’s another thing about my favoured prey. They dish out death, but they can’t take it. He won’t accept it and he struggles for far longer than most of them. 

Melissa will be different, but then I have a different game I will play with her. I know I shouldn’t play with my food, but I got the idea from a cat as it played with a mouse it had caught. Allowing it the illusion of escape and salvation until it was exhausted and welcomed its end. Yes, Melissa will be different, but just as tasty. Eventually I will break her and she will go willingly into the longest night.