This is the seventh part of a fiction serial, in 735 words.
The thing about murder that most people don’t realise is that it’s addictive. I’m not talking about sex killers like The Boston Strangler, or killers for profit, like Mafia hit men. No, just run of the mill killings, the taking of a life. Getting away with it is easy enough if you are careful. After all, there are thousands of unsolved murders sitting on the books around the world.
And don’t get me started on the ‘Missing’, or the ‘Disappeared’. They are all dead and gone, take my word for it. I know what I’m talking about.
Forget about all those ‘Sociopaths’, ‘Social rejects’, and ‘Psychopaths’. Most of those either want to get caught, or are trapped by their carelessness. Being famous for killing a lot of people is no substitute for spending the rest of your days in solitary or a mental hospital, not as far as I’m concerned.
No, you just kill people you don’t like. It’s as simple as that. Make it look like an accident, and that’s a bonus.
Modern technology is the murderer’s enemy, not the police. The police would be useless if it wasn’t for their three golden rules. ‘Motive’, ‘Method’, and ‘Opportunity’. Leave out one of those three, and they are running around like the Keystone Cops. But you have to be careful now. Mobile phone tracking, Internet searches, and the bane of my life, CCTV cameras. They are the worst, and account for so many convictions these days, they might as well sack all the cops and just employ more CCTV operators instead.
Back when I started, all that was in its infancy. All I had to remember was not to get any books out of the library that mentioned murder.
Life wasn’t so bad, until my little sister was born. Dad played football with me in the garden, mum made a fuss of me and bought me cakes. We had holidays at the seaside, ice cream and funfair rides. Cricket on the beach, and tired evenings in the caravan. Once we even went to Spain for a week, on an aeroplane. I remember being excited about the plane, and remember it was so bloody hot there. But not much else.
Then just before my eighth birthday, mum looked fat. She sat me down and told me that I was going to get a little brother or sister. She seemed happy, and said it like she expected me to be excited at the prospect. You can already guess that I wasn’t.
I played along of course, hoping for a brother I could dominate, and pass on my toys to. Seven months later, I got a sister.
They called her Emily, after a great aunt who had left some money in a will. As soon as she arrived back from the hospital, I was savvy enough to know that I might just as well kill myself. They had just tolerated a dirty, smelly boy for eight years, and now they had an adorable blonde daughter who didn’t even keep them awake at night crying. Emily was perfect. My Dad told me so, more times than I ever wanted to hear.
That started what I think of as the ‘bedroom years’. My parents and grandparents doted on baby Emily for the next two years until I was ten. I might just as well have gone to live in another country, for all I mattered. Especially to my dad. No more football in the garden. No more help with school work. No more fun presents at birthdays or Christmas. Just clothes, or vouchers. While Emily had so many presents under the tree, it took them an hour to open them all for her.
I retreated to my bedroom, and I started to think about my situation. Obvously, little Emily had to go.
Luckily, I was bright enough to continue my studies with no parental assistance. Not that I ever forgave them for that, as I am sure you have worked out by now. Her second birthday presented me wih a wonderful opportunity. Dad’s brother, Uncle Brian, presented the toddler wih a gigantic stuffed Panda. Now I look back, I am convinced he played the uncle to cover up his predeliction for young boys. At least that meant that Emily was safe from his advances.
Death by Panda was not that easy to achieve. But I was nothing if not inventive.