Something’s gotta give, man…I’m not happy. I don’t think I’veeverbeen truly happy, but certainly not in the last three years.
He ruined me when I was a child, and then, three years ago, he fucking ruined me all over again. I’m caged by this life he’s forced me into, and I fuckinghateit.
“Huyes de tu jaula, pajarito…”
Right. I’m not escaping from shit.
I’m still just as trapped as I’ve been since I watched him take my family from me. Only now, I have no purpose. No more objective. No mission to train for.
I’m a fucking waste of breath.
“Have you seen this shit??” A guy at the table next to me is talking to the guy next to him, pointing at something on the front page of the newspaper while I’m reluctantly standing up to leave.
I don’t wanna go back out into the cold…
“Fuckin sick shit.” The other guy shakes his head.
On my way past them, I glance at the newspaper headline.
Gruesome Gift
Bloody corpse left on Rockefeller Center tree has police stumped.
Whoa…
I’m as disturbed as I am intrigued while I leave McDonald’s, braving the arctic tundra of the streets of New York back to my cramped little apartment.
Puta, stop complaining. At least you have working heat.
Shit could always be worse.
When I get there, I shuffle inside, leaving my wet boots by the door. One of my roommates, Derek, is home, sitting on the couch that separates our two areas. The TV is on, and he’s glued to the screen. Right away, I see why…
“NYPD Homicide Detective Jacob Courtney will hold a press conference tonight to share what information they have regarding the body found hanging from the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center early Monday morning,”the reporter for channel two is saying as I wander closer, attention captured.“Forty-one-year-old Lee Turnov is believed to have been killed prior to being posed on our city’s beloved holiday attraction. Sources say the NYPD Homicide division has linked this incident to that of another body found outside the Broadway Theatre in May. Twenty-six-year-old Gee Pourier was also posed, and suffered similar facial lacerations to Turnov, post-mortem. Pourier’s case is still under investigation, though we’ve been told that police are no closer to finding who’s responsible for these heinous crimes…”
“Fucked up, right?” Derek murmurs, though his gaze, like mine, remains on the screen.
Held captive by the footage of crime scene investigators lowering a bloody corpse from the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Right above wherefamiliesgoice skating…
Right outside where Jimmy Fallon works, and fucking SNL happens.
Completely insane.
“They’re saying there could be as many as ten victims connected to whoever’s doing this,” he goes on. “Maybe more. That means there’s a fucking—”
“Serial killer,” my captivated whisper finishes his sentence.
I can’t help the morbid sense of curiosity that’s working wonders to distract me from how melancholy I was justmoments ago. I’ve always been fascinated by serial killers. Like most true crime buffs, I’m drawn to the psychology of what makes someone do something so horrendous. And the investigative processes required to catch them.
Most of the big names were active years before I was even born. We don’t experience the type of fear people did back in the seventies and eighties, with their cities being terrorized by serial killers like the Night Stalker, Green River, or the Hillside Strangler. It just doesn’t happen like that anymore.
My mind drags him out of the back, where I keep trying to stuff him, though he never stays in there.
Diablo…
Hedeserves to die, and yet he’s out there, living and breathing—probably killing people himself.Man, how awesome would it be if The Carver took out Manuel Blanco? It’d be like Freddy Vs. Jason.
Amusing or not, I frown.No, he’smineto kill.
