It wasn’t so bad now. It was easier. She could cut herself off from her emotions, retreat to a tiny room in her head, one where this wasn’t happening. Her body moved and responded correctly, but she was not conscious of any of it. When she came to again Sandra looked at the body. It had nothing to do with her, it had just appeared. Once it was a person, now it was not. She had chosen this time. She had been out in the world, but she hadn’t run. She couldn’t. Not then. They were in the car, it was locked and she was handcuffed. She couldn’t have gotten out, she couldn’t have gotten away.
It was a homeless woman this time. A runaway. She had begged for her mother before it was all over. Screaming that she was sorry, that she’d be a good girl, only to make it stop. Sandra heard none of it. He watched her, allowing her to make her own choices. It was interesting, watching her work without instruction. She was such an artist. The swirls and loops she carved into the girl were astounding and when she was done it was breath-taking. It took her six hours before she was finished. The girl lived the entire time. It was as he was watching Sandra that he knew she was ready, that she could handle getting the body prepared for disposal. He felt bad for destroying such art, but it had to be done. She would have to find a way to remember them. He had told her where the necklace had come from, she still wore it. She hadn’t tried to run. He watched carefully. Even gave her a chance. He knew if she tried he would catch her, but she didn’t know that. She didn’t attempt to escape. It was working. She was becoming like him, allowing herself to experience it properly. Soon she’d be able to choose her victims herself, she’d be able to hunt alone. He still locked her in her room when he left the apartment, but while he was there she was free to wander the halls. She didn’t leave her room much, occasionally she would watch TV, but not once did she try to attack or go for the door. He knew she wouldn’t. She had the need inside her now and She knew she needed his help if she wanted to sate it.
Sandra was biding her time. She would escape, but she only had one shot, she couldn’t waste it. She had been allowed go about the apartment for a few days, even make her own meals. She cooked for him once. She considered poisoning him, but he watched her cook. She had struggled when she held the knife, her hand itching, wanting to dart forward and skewer him, but what if she missed? What if he grabbed the knife first? She couldn’t risk it. It would be a little longer, that was all, she could do it. She had done so much already, she could survive a little longer. She was strong, he would learn that soon.
The knife parted the flesh easily, the blood felt so warm against her skin. She smiled slightly as she worked, cutting and shaping to her own designs. The man on the table was thin, emaciated, ugly. In death he would be beautiful, he would be pure, cleansed. His teeth crowded his mouth. Too many, far too many. She used the handle of the knife to knock some out, making sure he didn’t choke on any. The teeth made a satisfying crunch as they were ripped from his jaw. She looked at the jagged teeth remaining. No, that would never do, it was too uneven. She considered them from a few different angles, then brought the knife handle down again. That was better. It would be best if they were all gone. When she was done his mouth was bloody, cheeks sunken even further. She considered his forehead, it was large and covered with acne scars. As she looked upon it, pictures started appearing in her mind, she took the knife and started to make thin, shallow cuts, connecting them with lines. She worked down his body slowly, oblivious to the shouts and screams. They didn’t concern her, this was too important. His fingers were stubby, far too stubby. She wondered what it would look like if she removed them. No, that would be too much. His nails were round and stunted, they were ugly. The tips, that was perfect. She carefully sliced them off.
Her crowning achievement, at least to her own mind, was the shins. She cut through, removing thin strips, revealing the bone beneath. Blood obscured most of it, but once he was rinsed off, the bone would show through, brilliantly contrasting the deep red of the cuts. She took extra care with the swirls and curves, those were the hardest. She hadn’t thought about it before, but as she worked she realised that each person was different, their skin responded differently, cut differently. What worked for one wouldn’t work for another. As she worked the skin spoke to her and she listened, adjusting things ever so slightly to get the result she wanted.
When she stepped back from the body she looked at her work before smiling. It was perfect. She was a god. She was his god. There was one last incision to make. She wasn’t quite sure how he had held on so long, he should have bled to death long before this. She approached him, his shaking, gurgling body, and raised the knife before slashing it across his throat. She was his god, and she would be merciful. He had worshipped her then, and she knew it. He had remained conscious to receive her final blessing. He didn’t die until she gave him permission. She set the knife down and smiled.
He watched breathlessly, unable to anticipate the beauty of each cut. Blood flowed from the body, but in small amounts, a drop here and one there. She seemed to instinctively avoid any major blood vessels and arteries. It was like the body was speaking to her. Destroying the body would be desecration. When she was done he stood beside her in awe. They took in the work for a few moments, then together they started to clean. Soon the body would cease to exist, but the artwork would remain in their minds.
She had chosen him and started to work, completely unprompted. He did not force her, he did not rush her. She was in charge, she chose her utensils. She was his, body and mind. She always would be.