Smooth is Fast

Adelaide Sabre

23/09/2023

Image description: a woman with white-blonde hair and bright blue eyes with red blood spilling down her face is covered in blue and purple light.

Swirling lights flash red and blue, then green and purple, as I signal to Dani that I’m going for a drink, and she waves back, hanging off some guy’s muscled arm. I stumble through the drunken, sweaty dancers, the bass thumping in my chest as I finally reach the blue downlights of the bar. I grab the bartender’s attention, who looks relieved with my simple rum and coke.

I take a fistful of napkins and try to pat dry my dress. Dani had gotten a little over-excited and splashed something electric blue and mostly sugar all over me. Giving up, I toss the crumpled napkins on the bar and lean against it, wishing I was home and less sticky. Dani forced me out, saying I needed to have some fun. I didn’t feel like I was having fun. Just a headache and a bill. I pick at one of the napkins when I feel a tingle on the back of my neck. I turn round, and there is only a sea of coloured light and people. I roll my eyes. No need to be dramatic.

I turn back around, and my drink is waiting. I take a sip, then another, and sigh. Maybe I should just find Dani and go.

A hand grabs my shoulder, and I jerk away. But a giggle lets me know it’s just Dani, drunk and oblivious. She tries to drag me out to dance, but I guide her out of the club and call an Uber, waiting until she falls safely inside. My apartment is only on the other side of the park; no point wasting money. I could use the time to think. Our night is over.

*

The detective strides towards the crime scene, frost crunching under his feet. He knows the bare minimum. A woman, blonde hair, out at night, eyes removed, stabbed multiple times in the abdomen and chest. Purse, watch, and phone missing. A jogger found her in the early hours of the morning. He finds her sitting on a bench. All would seem normal if not for the blood and the eyeless face. He is glad for his empty stomach. There’s something especially unnerving when someone so young is dehumanised in such a brutal way. He turns away from her face, settles his mind, and begins his work.

*

I look down at my phone, wondering if I should call him. I doubt he’ll answer. I was too harsh. But I am too busy with Uni, work, and sleep; everything else but him. A cold wind blows through my hair. I shiver.

I follow her. Moving slow and smooth. Smooth is fast. I stand shadowed out of the light. I have walked this path many times this week to make sure I will not be seen. There will be no interruptions. She does not notice. She does not speed up; she does not glance behind. She does not notice me. I stay behind, just out of reach. I watch.

I stop for a moment under a streetlight and peer into the park. I turn and huddle into my leather jacket against the chilly wind. My phone beeps. It’s a selfie from Dani looking a mess but still infinitely happier. Maybe I do need to relax. I should just call him.

Her blonde hair shines in the warm streetlight, she turns and her face smiles at me. It was her hair that first caught my attention. Golden. Then it was her eyes. Blue is such a lovely colour. I see it often but never so vibrant and clear as in her eyes. But I must admit red is my favourite colour, and I know she would look gorgeous in red.

My finger hovers over the call symbol, and as I go to press, a hand grabs my shoulder.

*

The detective looks down at the woman. Her missing eyes and a chunk of hair ripped out. Souvenirs. This killer has a type, perhaps? The detective circles round, observing the scene. No signs of sexual assault, and despite the number of stab wounds, each wound is precise. The wounds form a pattern. A shape. Not a sign of frenzy or passionate rage. Even her placement on the bench is deliberate. She is presented with relative care. Not dumped like trash. Not buried. Not hidden. The killer wants her to be found, wants everyone to see, everyone to know. Her hands lay in her lap as if patiently waiting to be discovered.

Her eyes—

—carefully removed. Delicately. There must be no damage. I cradle them in my gloved hands and place them in the prepared solution. There must be no decay.

There is no light. No warmth. A voice whispers. Words that say I am beautiful, a treasure. But the tone is cold and cloying. I shudder. I cannot remember why but this voice frightens me; it makes me feel colder.

The detective steps back and follows a trail of blood, leading not far down the path. He soon finds a pool of blood. There are no drag marks. Could the killer have carried her? Or did she try to stagger away, the killer toying with her? The area is blocked off by trees. The killer knew his location and knew his victim. He was prepared. The detective moves in closer and bends to—

—crouch down. I watch the blood spread. Her cries. Her pleas for mercy. Her struggles have stopped. The light in her eyes dies. I take my knife, and each stab follows the contour of her body, the natural lines. Free flowing. Unrestrained. A shape etched into her soul. To have beauty, I must leave beauty in its place.

The pain begins to fade. I stop pleading; I can no longer cry. I choke and taste blood. I stare into his eyes as they dilate and watch me drown. I wish I had called my boyfriend. I wish I had gone with Dani. I wish it didn’t hurt.

The detective places an evidence marker at the last blood droplet. He once again stands in front of the woman. So far, the only physical evidence to be found is hers. No blood. (I clean up). Footprints. (I wipe away). No skin under her nails. (I ambush my prey). Only what was left for them to find. (I must leave no evidence. No hair. No blood. Not my breath, nor my touch). This has all the hallmarks of an experienced serial killer, and the detective knew his only hope was that the killer had made a mistake at an earlier crime.

I stand back and gaze at my scene. At my display. I feel the urge to touch her bloodied, cold skin. To trace the wounds and draw a line in between each like a constellation in the night sky. But I resist — I must only leave my design. I will leave no other trace.

Perhaps there is hope for some trace evidence. Some hair, a strand of fabric, anything. Unlikely. The detective knows this killer is the worst kind, one organised and controlled. The detective wonders who she is, what her name is…

But I know her name is unimportant. I already know her completely. I could read her face. Her body. I saw her dissatisfaction at the club — better places to be. The fixation with her phone — a rejected lover. Call him? Call him not? But it is not who she is; it is what she has become. I curl her hair around my finger and rip.

The zip closes. Her body is taken away. The crowd has dispersed. The news crews have scurried off with a new catchy headline. The Monroe Killer or The Blind Eye Killer. It will be a circus. A circus the detective is the ringmaster of. He needs to start tracking down leads. Try and identify the woman. Find out where she has been. The dress and smell of alcohol says night club. If so, she might have been with a friend; otherwise, the likelihood that anyone will remember her is small. The detective sighs and closes his eyes.

And I open mine. This, I know, is the way detectives work. This will be how they try to understand me. How they try to catch me. I must leave no evidence. No one can remember me. Only what I leave them. I must not taunt. Or reminisce. I must discard her beautiful eyes and her shining hair. I can only live in this moment and only be remembered through what I leave behind.

***

Adelaide Sabre lives amongst the bush in regional Victoria’s Latrobe Valley. She enjoys academic and creative writing and is pursuing a creative writing degree, a Bachelor of Art Honours, through Federation University, with plans to move into further study. Adelaide also has a background in photography, so when not reading and writing, she loves taking photos, trying new art mediums, solving puzzles, and cuddling with her cat.