J Alicia Walker

Lisa was an artist

I could see the moment her brain signaled the release of

adrenaline in her dilated eyes as they shifted back and forth
examining the perimeter of my workshop. She constricted her
diaphragm and gasped for oxygen, drooling and sputtering
around the tight gag in her mouth. I can imagine what she would
have done just to have been given the chance to scream. Oh
God, how thrilled I had become at the sight of this snide little
tart popping her joints out of place in such a desperate exertion
to gain the slightest bit of control over her self. “Help me
somebody! Help! Help!” I mocked. “Such a pathetic shame it is
to see you like this princess,” I broadcasted throughout the
dank doublewide trailer I had set up on fifteen acres of land that
I bought from an elderly couple three years back. This is what I
do. This is who I am. For me there is nothing more exciting than
knowing I have absolute control over the life of another
instinctual beast. You may binge eat taquitos in you car,
compulsively shop with money you don’t have or sit on a park
bench and point out other peoples flaws, me? I kill.
As far back into my life as I could retain information, the
impulse to stop a beating heart has tickled my senses. I like to
think my childhood was the archetype of an American youth. No
one is really “normal” anymore anyway. I am the bastard child
of a murderer, sentenced to life while I was six months old, dear
old dad still tells me he didn’t do it, the off brand duck tape and
the vials of Phenobarbital locked in his safe under the excess of
a million dollars worth of raw African diamonds convicted him
before he even laid his eyes upon the marble accents on the
defendants bench inside the courtroom. Mommy sure was a
gem. Being the mistress of a noteworthy murderer must have
been stressful for her. Beauty could only take her so far and I
suppose she couldn’t find a new suitor with her face plastered
all over Current Affairs. She and I lived with my alcoholic
grandfather and sociopathic grandmother for the first four years
of my life. Mommy developed habits of her own over that time
and I honestly cannot recall what was happening to me during
those years, I blacked out. We didn’t flee the circumstances
until grandpa, spoiled with moonshine planted his gaze upon an
infantile me cooing and crawling around the linoleum floor and
fingered the barrel of the sawed off shot gun he hid under the
grimy tweed couch. Following that, it was man after man. I was
always being forced to call some well off asshole “dad,” I resent
that. At age six, mommy married the forty six year old son of my
father and his previous wife, making him my half brother and
stepfather. I didn’t know how unnatural that was until much
later in life. He was a real champ, educated chiropractor with
sweet salt and pepper swagger that women over forty falls to
pieces over. Swooned mommy into a twisted web faster than
any man I’d ever witnessed her with. What a charmer. Five
months in, during our nightly family prayer of “Now I lay me
down to sleep,” he flinched up and saw red. I still couldn’t tell
you why but he reached for her throat and choked her until she
lost control of her bowls and oozed mucus from her facial
orifices. It didn’t get any better after that. He controlled us; we
were a little army, maintaining the order of his will. His interest
in my developing body peaked when I was eleven. That must
have been the day my interest peaked in manipulating and
controlling life. The bastard died a year later from all the
Listerine he drank to stay undetectably inebriated, cirrhosis. I
never shed a tear. After that it was the typical mother and
daughter clash that is hereditary in my family. After I left for
college she stopped talking to me for some selfish reason or
another and I haven’t heard from her since. Life is better
without the incessant complaining. From what I have read; the
preadolescent years are the most crucial for development in a
child’s life. I think I faired well. You see, I am aware of whom I
am; the general public would say that I am mentally unstable,
mad or bat shit crazy but I would have to beg to differ. My
everyday life feels much like yours; very simple, demanding,
typical working grind continually weighing on my shoulders
almost crushing me at the collarbone. I release. I give in to my
intrinsic urge. Funny, no one can stop me.
In my
early adulthood I resisted my impulse to kill under society’s
watchful eye. Fearing big brother I kept my heart under lock and
key, the fetish stored away in a small safe under my bed.
Pictures of the animals I had purposely annihilated with my car,
mangled bloody corpses satisfied my needs for the time being.
Driving on country back roads surrounded by thick woods on
either side. I reinforced my large SUV to take a severe blow to
the front end with a steel grill and bullet proof windshield,
always glazed with rain-X to ensure the blood would l come
smoothly off with a quick run through a car wash. I would cruise
control at seventy miles per hour. At sixty the beast would be in
tact, usually only shattered the bones and thrown a hundred
feet from the striking point. At eighty it would be liquid matter
painted on the gravel. Seventy broke and twisted the bones into
a jig saw of perfect proportions, splitting the flesh open just
enough to reveal the ruptured organs. I threw my vehicle into
park. Still jerking with adrenaline I took Polaroid’s of the
monster I had made. Oh God, the chills it gave me such a long
time ago. Today such a thing would only itch my small toe on my
left foot. I have moved on.
I watch with the primal lust early man must have felt when he
could kill with out being sentenced to life in prison. I know
people like me are out there. Brooding in their cellars. Striking
guiltless natives of their cities. Tactfully arranging every move
they make, to make certain they wont get caught by our
government’s finest law enforcing officials. I never worry. I
never get caught. I am among the elite in my field of expertise. I
take what is mine, and tonight, her life belongs to me.
I
knick, I prick. Her skin is like a warm moist mass of clay resting
on my gurney, and I am ready to throw pots. She will be my
centennial masterpiece; I owe her the dignity of a special
remuneration. Every hair on her body is standing at its pores
axis; her dainty ankles are enswathed to soak the blood from
the open wound on her Achilles tendon. Two mere one-inch deep
incisions; I couldn’t have her trying to leave on short notice. She
is contingent. I love this part. I wipe the sweat from mine and
her brow with the same cloth, I like the way our body fluids
combine to create an imitable perfume never smelt by another
soul on the planet. I inhale. “Can you smell that Tina?” I ask my
animate mannequin, “That’s what we smell like together.” She
scoffs, playing hard to get. I suppose being toyed with isn’t her
idea of a good first date. However, I love girl who isn’t easy. The
loose betty’s are not hard to impress, they give me what I want
too quickly, agree with my proposals, go along with my games
and let me have my way. I don’t enjoy the end with them. Climax
isn’t satisfying.
We
are at the dead center of my property, if she and I both
screamed in unison on top of my trailer, not a soul would even
pick up a slight vibration. The trees and thick sediment of
centuries of fallen leaves absorb the sound waves. I think I will
remove her gag. Oh how I do like to chat. I have a vivacious
personality for someone of my assumed lunacy. I walk my index
and middle finger up her naked body, “Fee Fie Foe Fum, let me
see Tina’s tongue,” I giggle.
Her eyes twitched back and forth in a frenzy of awareness. I
could feel the apprehension in her flexed muscles, tightly wound
around her bones like Saran wrap. Her voice squealed over the
droning double bass vibrating through the amplifiers that I had
been using as a table to lay my tools atop. I think she knew at
this point that yelling, “Help,” really wasn’t going to get her
anywhere. She only screamed. The kind of scream that a baby
would let out if he were stuck under a steamroller at the toes
and the machine was inching its way up his vulnerable body.
This is what fuels my desire. She is giving me what I need.
She
asked, “Why are you doing this?” I am surprised that she didn’t
say “to me” at the end of her sentence. Typically they always
include that little twinge of self-centered motivation that makes
me want this even more. I respond, “I am not doing this for you
Tina, I have no intention to hurt your body, I only desire to
sculpt it into something that is unique to the physical world, I
have to see that exclusive beauty that few people ever feast
their eyes upon.” The tears well up in her eyes and she lets out
a deep sigh. She is silent. Accepting her fate? She looks into my
eyes and I think I can feel her emotions. This has never
happened to me. She asks confidently, “What do you think is
beautiful?” I am stunned by her honesty. I don’t know how to
respond. Never have I thought so deeply about the answer to
that question. I can feel my conception of beauty, but voicing it
to one of my creations prior to altering her into my trophies
before placing her on my shelf isn’t something I have ever done.
I digress.
I
reach for my scalpel, grazing the inside of her thighs. She gasps
for hope. “Please tell me what you are going to do to me, I don’t
want to be surprised,” she questions. Truth is I make it up as I
go along. Always doing what sparks my fancy on the impulse. I
can’t take this; I can’t keep listening to her perplexing
questions. I am in control, this is my work. Maybe talking with
this one wasn’t such a bright idea. I generally like to get
acquainted with them; at least enough for them to virtually
prove their aimless existence is worthless. Humans are selfish
beasts. Always finding a way to move up, benefit themselves,
never listening, only waiting to speak. Still, I can’t give up on
this job. I have a vision and I won’t let it go. Deeper than I was
prepared for, she knows how to make me feel like God. She
herself knows the feeling.
Time
is scarce. Hesitation is not an option. Our grand opening is
approaching the present at an alarming rate. Tina and I have an
unfinished masterpiece to create. She has set my stage and I
will garnish the finished product with a personal touch.
I
tighten the restraints to cut the circulation in her limbs; it
should dull the pain when the brain sacrifices them due to the
lack of oxygen. This time I cannot make a mistake. I pierce her
limbs at the joints with my scalpel. Creating a guide to follow
with the accuracy of a brain surgeon. I toss her bloody forearms
into a wire crate draining them of all fluid. The bone saw sparks
and throws fragments of bone marrow into the air, landing on
her pale stomach. She gave up hope. I witness her last breath
and almost melt into the drainage along with her livelihood. This
is it. Together we are making something so beautiful that God
himself would be proud. As I pop the ball and hinge joint of her
femur out of place I rip the last remaining bit of skin, lumping
the last limb into the pile. Her torso and organs are destined for
another set of preparation. They must be individually removed
and cleansed of their natural bodily secretions. Disemboweling
her, one by one. I wrap her intestines around a PVC pipe tying it
at the ends. I drain her stomach bile into a steel bowl for later
use. Her heart is still warm from humming bird palpitations.
Piece by piece she is dismantled. Her beautiful face will stay in
tact. My inhibitions dissolve.
It is time. Tina and I have been awaiting this day me entire life.
It is the grand gala opening of the decades most anticipated art
show since the United States since unveiling of the Mona Lisa at
the High Museum in New York. Modern artists from around the
world will be in my city tonight, reveling over the recreation of
Leonardo Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, in the form of a life sized
sculpture by the contemporary artist Tina Hussler. Everything is
ready. The Museum doors will not open until the unveiling. My
counterfeit job as custodial technician gives me access to all of
the staff rooms. Frantically scurrying around the little people
prepares. The sculpture already prepared two days ago,
arranged to perfection leaves a lot of open space and time for
me to assemble my life’s magnum opus. It has all been practice
up until now. Every last detail attended to. The T’s are Crossed
and I’s are dotted. I work.
Ten
minutes until the exposure. She is perfect now. I pace hurrily
through the crowd, excited. Finally, I have reached the status
Bundy, Gacy, and Dahmer dreamed of. The kind of recognition
someone of my caliber dwells on his or her whole life. This is my
release. Only Fifteen minutes is an understatement. I will go
down in history with modern day Jesus him self.
The curtain opens. Publicly divulging my everything. There rests
Judas his wine glass filled to the brim with mellifluous stomach
acid. Mary Magdalene gazing upon a rubbery drained heart. And
all the other beautiful bits and pieces scattered across the stone
table like a feast for the sacred celebration. There at the center
of the table rests face of the creator herself upon the holy
martyrs serving platter. She is now a creation of the created. My
eyes fill with tears at the sight of this glorious spectacle.
The
public gasps. The artists stare. The media flashes their cameras.
The news anchors keep their cool. The coordinators order the
curtains closed. Everything I have wanted is mine. My work
publicly displayed at its peak of perfection. I step aside as the
police barricades are formed; people are motioned out of the
building in chaos. I put my hands into my pockets and proceed
into the crowd. I am invisible, now only I know what I have done,
and only I will ever know. No one on this dim earth can feel the
way my heart just erupted in bliss. It was all up to me. I
achieved this for the greater of human understanding. I know
there are others out there who will study my work and know its
beauty. For now I am blur on the street corner, changing the
world under the radar. Just like you.
 Oliver was a teacher

I can feel the residue of the lanolin caked in between the

tiles of the bathroom floor. He uses it to keep the heels of his
feet from cracking after he takes a shower before work five days
out of the week. It is sickeningly clean inside of this cold flat. I
wonder if his mother ever taught him to live, because she
obviously never let the lad breathe. It almost feels wrong, killing
someone who doesn’t even seem to play much of a roll in society
at all. If that were as true as it appears, I would tuck my tools
away and let myself evaporate through the ceiling plaster, but
this recumbent soul has more weight than law allows. Oliver
Longstreet Huges III, you sly devil you.. All this mail, this mail is
everywhere; it is the only thing that I can find out of place. And
it’s all normal. Water bills, electric, pitiful tax returns, free
address labels for giving to burn victims, gross. People actually
keep up with these things.