Writing Prompt
Elizabeth Ann DebuqueShare
Writing Prompt: A dating service where matching is based on people’s search history exists. You’re a serial killer. You go on a date with a writer.
I promptly trace the cracks in my lips as I smile, triumphant in my search for a new flesh. Closing my eyes, breathing in as I imagine how the night would turn out to be. Sated for now.
I emerge from my shower several minutes later, contemplating what to wear and how I should do my hair. I settle for something unexpected, unpredictable. I nod with approval at my reflection.
The moment he enters the book cafe, I know it's him, the writer. I slowly raise my hand and motion at him. He hesitates, and makes his way towards me.
"May I?" he asks.
"Of course, take a seat." I fold my hands under the table as I devour his image, finally in front of me. My thoughts running endlessly with things I already want to do to him.
"I'm sorry I took so long, I was already in the car when I realized I left my keys and wallet. I've never been on a date -- wait, I shouldn't have said that. Oh, I'm talking too much, am I? I haven't even properly introduced myself. I'm Kahlil." He extends his hand.
His nervousness excites me, his flushed cheeks while he's explaining made me visualize how his supple flesh would look like when -- I cut myself off as I focus on his hand. It takes me a while before I return his handshake.
"I'm Nala. Pleasure to meet you, Kahlil." It's a pleasure, indeed.
"I didn't expect you to look so..." he stumbles as he searches for a likely polite way to say 'ugly'.
"Ordinary?" I prompt.
"Yes. I mean, no! More like a natural beauty. Simple but in a good way. Just not like all the other girls." Oh, you have no idea...
And so we talk on and on. I don't say much, I just give him little nods of agreement or shake my head at his questions if I have tried this or that. I think he prefers to be talking about himself, anyways. And I, on the other hand, have enough time to think about the way I could made him scream in agony and beg every saint for me to stop.
"So how many boyfriends have you had?" He asks.
"Hmm. Quite many. I don't count." I laugh internally at my own private joke, not boyfriends but body counts. I think he knows how many if he watches the news.
He lifts his brows at my answer. "Oh, so it seems you're more than meets the eye."
His eyes briefly take on a gleam that is quite familiar but too fast for me to ponder on.
"What do you mean?" I try to ignore the gut feeling that I haven't felt for a very long time.
"Nothing. Just trying to get to know you." He stares at his drink, swirling his straw around the brown mush they call chocolate frappe.
I flip my hair, irritated at the way he dodged my question and the way I can't ignore this gut feeling. I think he sees that I'm uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. I just ran out of words to say. It's late, let me make it up to you by taking you home." He takes out his wallet and pays the bill.
We leave the cafe and walk to the parking lot where he told me he parked his car. Uneasiness in my stomach starts rolling in waves. I gasp as my knees give out, Kahlil grabs me before I plant my face into the asphalt.
"Easy. Try to relax." His breath on my face, my mind racing to wonder what is wrong. My legs won't move and I can't feel my arms. I try to open my mouth but all that come out is a guttural noise, my tongue feels dry and thick.
"Shh... Relax..." he tells me again. "It'll be over soon, my love." My eyes widen at this, my face must have yielded a question of how and why and what because he laughs at me.
"I saw your little profile after we matched and I knew in my loins you were the one I'm going to have for tonight!" He proceeds to haul me to his car, carefully strapping me in at the front seat.
He goes around the car and gets in the driver's side. "I noticed in your photos that you kept touching your lips, so I made a very creative way of drugging you. I had to make sure it's unscented so you won't notice when I shake your hand." He starts the car.
"I wanted you so much that I invented all the talks I made you listen to. You must have thought that I have a humdrum life. But no! It's so very colorful, even more so now that you're here, I bet your blood will be so bright against that paleness of your skin!" He laughs at himself excitedly like a little kid.
No... This couldn't be. What were the chances? Of all people, why him?
A month ago there was this mysterious writer with a pseudonym "Denzen". The stories he has written was thought to be fiction until it turned out to be a diary of a serial killer after he has amassed a total body count of 53. Police has hidden this from the public to prevent people from panicking.
But someone who was working on the investigation has a teenage son who managed get his hands on his father's files and link all the murders to the stories the teen has read online. Denzen has written every morbid detail of how he would fillet his victims slowly starting at their feet and work his way up inch by inch and chop off parts to feed stray animals.
His motives were unclear other than speculations of how his intentions were good by feeding animals but the actions are too extreme. Others presume that he punishes people who are cruel to animals.
But all of that happened in England.
Who would have thought that he would be here in the Philippines? And with me. Tonight.
I feel the tears run down my cheeks as I try to laugh at the impossible.
"Oh no, don't cry yet... It hasn't even begun. Just you wait til we get home!" He tells me as he speeds off into the night.
***