There were four today.
Four souls taken from this earth, brutally, with no regard for the lives that have been prematurely lost. He treats it like a game, a game without consequences, a game without remorse.
When we first entered lockdown it was like me and the kids were enough, he was distracted, it occupied him, the murders stopped. He toyed with others but didn’t fully commit and victims were scarce.
Slowly though as our new way of life became the norm, the novelty of the added attention and constant companionship has dissipated. It seems boredom has set in once again and his spree has been reignited with fervour.
I try to protect the children but can’t, now they are almost apathetic. The guilt sometimes threatens to overwhelm me, I hate it. Sometimes I manage to stop him just in time but life means I can’t monitor him 24/7. I know people talk, suspect, I worry that people will discover the real truth, so I keep his secret.
I’m harbouring a cold-blooded serial killer and facilitating the disposal of the bodies, or what is left. An accessory to murder.
Some are more challenging than others to dispense of. Take today for instance, for the past few weeks the garden has been an adequate and necessary final resting place. The sheer volume today though has posed challenges, and suspicions could be raised. Lockdown easing has undoubtedly helped, it meant that one of the bodies could be driven to the woods for, it was simply too large to remain here.
I knew from the moment that we woke this morning that today would be bad, he was skittish, he worked himself up into a frenzy. Unable to contain his urges, despite our pleas.
After the final one he came into the bedroom. As I looked into his eyes for a moment I forgot, he looked placid, young, innocent, boyish, a hint of before. But, as I remembered my eyes dropped and my gaze rested on his feet.
Despairingly I lifted him and took him into the bathroom and gently under the tap washed the blood away that soaked his white socks. Later once his protests were subdued, I crouched on my hands and knees as I washed away the evidence of the murder off the kitchen floor. Puddles of blood, more than there has ever been before, soaked in between the tiles, splashed up the walls and splattered across the skirting boards. A hideous illustration of the struggle of life.
Harbouring a serial killer in lockdown, when will it end?
By Michelle Stevens