FOR HIM, DEATH WAS A VOCATION1. KILLING2 WAS NOT MERELY an act, or a means to an end. It certainly was not an impulse of the moment or a path to gain and glory.
Death was, in and of itself, the all.
He considered himself a late bloomer, and often bemoaned3 the years before he’d found his raison d’être. All that time lost, all those opportunities missed. But still, he had bloomed, and was forever grateful that he had finally looked inside himself and seen what he was. What he was meant for.
He was a maestro in the art of death. The keeper of time. The bringer of destiny.
It had taken time, of course, and experimentation4. His mentor’s time had run out long before he himself had become the master. And even in his prime, his teacher had not envisioned the full scope, the full power. He was proud that he had learned, had not only honed his skills but had expanded them while perfecting his techniques.
He’d learned, and learned quickly, that he preferred women as his partners in the duet. In the grand opera he wrote, and rewrote, they outperformed the men.
His requirements were few, but very specific.
He didn’t rape5 them. He’d experimented there, as well, but had found rape distasteful and demeaning to both parties.
There was nothing elegant about rape.
As with any vocation, any art that required great skill and concentration, he’d learned he required holidays—what he thought of as his dormant6 periods.
During them he would entertain himself as anyone might on a holiday. He would travel, explore, eat fine meals. He might ski or scuba7 dive, or simply sit under an umbrella on a lovely beach and while away the time reading and drinking mai tais.
He would plan, he would prepare, he would make arrangements.
By the time he went back to work, he was refreshed and eager.
As he was now, he thought as he readied his tools. More, so much more…with his latest dormant period had come the understanding of his own destiny. So he’d gone back to his roots. And there, where he had first seriously plied8 his trade, he would re-form and remake connections before the curtain came down.
It added so many interesting layers, he mused9, as he tested the edge on an antique switchblade with a horn handle he’d purchased while touring Italy. He turned the steel blade to the light, admired it. Circa nineteen fifty-three, he thought.
It was a classic for a reason.
He enjoyed using tools from long ago, though he also employed more modern pieces. The laser, for instance—so very excellent for applying the element of heat.
There must be a variety—sharp, dull, cold, heat—a series of elements in various forms, in various cycles. It took a great deal of skill, and patience and concentration to spin those cycles out to the absolute zenith of his partner’s aptitude10.
Then, and only then, would he complete the project and know he’d done his best work.
This one had been an excellent choice. He could congratulate himself on that. For three days and four nights, she’d survived—and there was life in her yet. It was so satisfying.
He’d started out slowly, naturally. It was vital, absolutely vital, to build and build and build to that ultimate crescendo11.
He knew, as a master of his craft knew such things, that they were approaching that peak.
“Music on,” he ordered, then stood, eyes closed as he absorbed the opening strains of Puccini’s Madame Butterfly.
He understood the central character’s choice of death for love. Hadn’t it been that choice, so many years before, that had sent him on this path?
He slipped the protective cover over his tailored white suit.
He turned. He looked at her.
Such a lovely thing, he thought now. He remembered, as he always did, her precursor12. Her mother, he supposed.
The Eve of all the others.
All that pretty white skin covered with burns and bruises13, with narrow slices and meticulous14 little punctures15. They showed his restraint, his patience, his thoroughness.
Her face was untouched—as yet. He always saved the face for last. Her eyes were fixed16 on his—wide, but yes, a bit dull. She had experienced nearly all she was capable of experiencing. Well, the timing17 worked well. Very well, because he’d anticipated, he’d prepared.
He’d already secured the next.
He glanced, almost absently, at the second woman across the room, peacefully sleeping under the drug he’d administered. Perhaps tomorrow, he thought, they could begin.
But for now…
He approached his partner.
He never gagged his partners, believing they should be free to scream, to beg, to weep, even to curse him. To express all emotion.
“Please,” she said. Only, “Please.”
“Good morning! I hope you rested well. We have a lot of work to do today.” He smiled as he laid the edge of the knife between her first and second ribs18. “So let’s get started, shall we?”
Her screams were like music.
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1
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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bemoaned
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的过去式和过去分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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experimentation
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| n.实验，试验，实验法 | |
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rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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scuba
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| n.水中呼吸器 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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punctures
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| n.（尖物刺成的）小孔( puncture的名词复数 )；（尤指）轮胎穿孔；（尤指皮肤上被刺破的）扎孔；刺伤v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的第三人称单数 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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timing
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| n.时间安排，时间选择 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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