A sad state of affairs for someone like me. Who is obsessed with the mere sound of her breathing, let alone how absolutely intoxicating she is to gaze upon.
An angel sent down from Heaven to tempt me into her orbit.
The moment I saw her, I knew she was the one. I knew she was going to be my everything as I felt my heart skip a beat.
How? I hear you ask. Because I’d never seen a woman be as unapologetically herself as I had Heather.
I’m known far and wide by my nickname, The Smiley Face Killer. The lunatic who carves a grin into the mouths of his victims. Police and medical experts have decided I’m some forty-year-old guy who has a terrible relationship with his mother—thus deeming me a woman hater.
Which is so far from accurate it’s borderline offensive, not to mention ridiculous how every detective or prick with a criminology degree and a gun has got it so… wrong. Astonishing in fact. Because I’m actually nineteen and I love my mother to death. She’s a role model to women, and parents everywhere—and I’m extremely lucky to have her.
The police say I lack social skills. I don’t. I’m actually the type of guy who finds it very easy to talk to people whenever I need to. They also say I’m manipulative, and most likely someone who is fantastic at influencing and gaslighting others.
Well, okay, that much is true.
I’ve seen newspapers claim I pretend to be physically challenged too, acting as though I need help to lure women back to my car so I can bash them on the head with a crowbar or something.
Again, no.
I also remember reading somewhere that I apparently drive a yellow beetle. But I think the papers are getting me mixed up with someone else entirely, treating me as though I’m a copycat killer when in fact… I’m my own kind of insane. I don’t even drive a car; I ride a motorcycle… and own a black van too, which is perfect for when I need to transfer freshly maimed cargo around. The van also has a detailed description of my job role and logo on the side.
Mutts Cuts.
Yep, that’s right, I’m a part-time dog groomer slash serial killer. Only when I’m not studying for my degree in criminal psychology, that is. After all, studies come first as my darlingmother likes to reiterate to me over and over again. Telling me I at least need to have my priorities in the right place before anything else even comes into question. “Fun won’t pay the bills when you’re older,” she tells me every day.
And who am I to disagree with a woman who has done nothing but sacrifice herself so as to make sure I’m able to have everything I need. And she’s right, killing pays nothing unless you’re a mercenary, and I prefer working alone and choosing my own victims rather than someone telling mewhoandwhere.
Mutts Cutts allows for the perfect disguise, and nobody bats an eyelid when they see me out at odd hours of the night. I mean, take last week for example. I had a fresh, bloodied body in my van when a cop car stopped me merely seconds after I loaded it into the back and zipped up the black body bag.
He was smiling and talking to me for ages about what services I offer—as his wife has a cockapoo who desperately needs help due to matting of the fur. Needless to say, I handed Officer Hotchner my business card and told him to call me in the morning, then I was on my way quicker than you can blink.
I swear, cops are fucking idiots these days.
Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. I haven’t even explained to you why I’m standing in the cemetery on Halloween night, at nine p.m. with my arms crossed, leaning against a large oak tree while I stare at this magnificent woman in front of me.
Like I said previously, Heather Delaney is an angel. She’s God’s apology for all the shit I’ve had to endure for the past six-and-a-half-months—but we’ll get to that at a later stage.
Right now, all that matters… isher.
Standing at five-foot-three, Heather is a foot shorter than my height of six-foot-three. Her wavey blonde hair is tipped with bright fuchsia pink hair dye and always in this half up, half down, cute little space buns hairstyle.
Eyes the colour of amber, with what look like tiny specks of woodland brown scattered around the iris. Like a forest grove in summer as the morning sunlight shines through the trees’ canopy. Beautiful and addictive to stare at. Ivory skin with a light blush over her nose and cheeks, and a slight golden shimmer over what little skin is on display, telling me she spends more time in the sun than I do, but not enough where it could become dangerous.
Heather also has this tiny beauty mark in the shape of a heart positioned perfectly above the left side of her mouth—right by the corner—and I love it. I spend more time thinking about said beauty mark than I should.
She’s naturally curvy, too.
Thick, juicy thighs, breasts I’d be happy to spend the rest of my life suffocating in, and a midriff that’s ever so slightly sinched in—similar to a figure eight in shape. She’s wearing light blue jeans that hug her curves wonderfully, and a baby pink cable-knit sweater where the hem kisses the waistline of her jeans so delicately it’s as though the outfit was made for her. Showing just enough of her stomach to tease me.
Heather is so exceptionally striking. Many of the times I’ve watched her, I do so in silence. I soak in her smile, and the way she talks to herself while she works. How she twirls a soft piece of her luxurious hair around her fingers when she’s concentrating.
It’s a wonderful experience to behold, believe me.
Every Halloween, when the California Pink Glowworms come out to mate, and the moon for some reason mirrors their pink hue, I always find her here.
When I watch Heather—unbeknownst to her—it’s like the first time,everytime.
Every.
