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Tilda drove quickly down the highway and felt her blood pressure and heart rate decrease as she finally reached the place of pure pleasure she always felt after she’d committed a malicious or violent act. Ever since she could remember, even as a young child, she’d loved to hurt things and been fascinated by torture. In fact, it was a behavior she’d learned to control most of her life. Several times her parents had shamed and punished her for cruelty toward others, especially people less fortunate than her.
Her mother told her she was mean, but all her life, she’d hurt others on purpose, through her mean-spirited behavior disguised by her actions, made-up stories, and lies. She’d spent her young life in church getting prayed over, delivered, and punished.
Strangely enough, Tilda wasn’t mean to animals, and in fact, was an animal lover, but she hated birds and chickens. Wilbur had realized her predilection for cruelty and had worked tirelessly throughout their marriage to “rid” her of the curse he felt was directly from Satan. In fact, he’d had her “delivered” several times by their deacons and had even called in a special theologian to “cleanse” her soul several times through the years. Tilda’s stomach soured as she remembered the torturous process of deliverance and the humiliation that followed. Her brain pushed back the revulsion she felt toward her husband, but the memories fueled her anger.
Tilda forced herself to calm down. She wanted to relish and relive the pure sense of pleasure and sensuality she felt from the kills. She smiled in satisfaction and caught a glimpse of herself in the truck’s rearview mirror. She looked pretty, really pretty, in fact. Her normally dark brown hair shined, and her curls were more bouncy than usual as they tried to escape from her stocking cap. Her brown eyes were bright and shiny with excitement, and her cheeks were flushed with pleasure. Her soul was elated, and she’d never been happier. She reached for her cell phone and told Siri to call Dr. Dude. She couldn’t wait to give him a report of what she’d done. Ah, the evening would be sweet. They’d meet back at the office, party, and make love all night long.
Dude’s phone rang and rang, and for a moment, anxiety gnawed at her and a touch of fear entered her pleasure zone. Suppose Nicholas got mad at her for killing Sarah. There really wasn’t much she could’ve done. The kid was simply collateral damage, and besides, she reasoned, Nicholas hadn’t liked the kid anyway. Hadn’t he always said she was ugly and a pain in the ass? Oh well, he’d just have to get over it. Tilda continued to drive down the road, careful to obey the speed limit as she listened to the mournful ring of her lover’s cell. Where the hell is he? A wave of sensuality and then anger overcame her as the phone continued to ring. Then she thought about the look of terror in Constance’s huge eyes when she had come for her with the knife. The feeling was so carnal and erotic, Tilda almost pulled off the road.
Oh my God. I loved killing her.
Tilda closed her eyes for a moment as she relived the thrill of the knife sinking into Constance’s soft flesh as she watched the look of bewilderment in her victim’s eyes. She watched the bewilderment in her nemesis turn to fear and pain as she grasped the knife and pulled it upward sharply, using her upper arm strength to be sure the knife severed Constance’s aorta. Chills of pleasure ran over her body, and she closed her eyes to relive the scene.
She felt the truck hit the shoulder of the road, and her eyes flashed open just as she turned the wheel one second before she crashed into the guardrail. Tilda righted the truck on the shoulder and reentered the highway without even looking for other cars.
Am I this excited because I killed Constance? Or is it because I’ve found another way to pleasure myself besides Nicholas?
Tilda continued to muse and missed the blue lights of a Virginia State Trooper in her rearview mirror as he quickly approached her vehicle. She jumped when the trooper blasted his siren. When she saw him, she smiled to herself and zipped her jacket with one hand as anxiety flushed her face. She hadn’t checked herself for blood splatter, and her eyes swiftly searched the truck for the murder weapon. Where’d she thrown the knife when she’d jumped into the vehicle? She slowly pulled off the road into a closed, deserted gas station and frantically looked into the backseat through the rear-view mirror.
The trooper approached her truck as she slid open her window, her license and registration in her hand.
He tipped his hat and said, “Evening, ma’am.”
Tilda nodded and flashed him her brightest smile, her porcelain veneers gleaming, the same perfect smile that mirrored the teeth of anyone in Richmond who’d had an opportunity and enough money to visit Dr. Smirkowitz’s office.
She responded in a soft, silky voice. “Hello, Officer, is anything wrong? I was sort of in a hurry to get home before it got too dark. I don’t want to run into any black ice,” she added as she pulled up her jacket sleeve to see her watch.
“Driver’s license and registration please, ma’am,” the officer answered his gaze unwavering as he stared at her, until his eyes swept the backseat.
Tilda handed him her documents and sat back in her seat. She watched him in her side mirror as he returned to his vehicle. She turned, opened the center console and peeked into the compartment. Sure enough, that was where she’d put her Glock. She stroked the gun fondly, smiled to herself and shut the console quickly as the smell of gunpowder wafted out of the small space. She turned the key and cut on her engine, setting the heater fan as high as she could to dispel the scent. She lowered the truck window allowing the smell to escape and reached into her purse. She grabbed the Sugared Fig body spray she knew Nicholas loved.
I’ll have Nicholas spray me with this tonight. He loves it. She sprayed herself and her clothes with sugared scent. The scent was strong and heady. She lay back against the leather seat, savoring the intoxicating aroma and dreamed of her evening to come with Nicholas. Then she relived the exciting and stimulating five minutes at Constance’s house. The minutes ticked slowly by. What the hell was that cop doing? She peered out the rear-view window. He was in his cruiser.
Bored and antsy, she inspected her nails and shook her head in disapproval as she noted the ragged cuticles and broken nail on her index finger on her right hand. There was dried blood under her fingernails. She considered buffing her nails but decided against it since the cop might perceive her as a smart aleck, at least that’s what Wilbur would say. She decided to stay quiet and respectful. Her voices told her that would be best. She placed the offending hand in her jacket pocket.
The minutes creeped by, and Tilda’s anxiety crawled up her spine. The noises in her head were so loud and restless, they popped her ears, and she placed her hands over her ears to drown out their sound. It didn’t help, so she put her mittens on and tried to pad her ears from the sound of the voices.
I’ve got to hang on, got to keep it together, she told herself over and over. She checked her rear-view mirror and pretended to fluff her hair. She saw the officer slowly returning to her car treading carefully on the slick, icy terrain under the darkened sky.
Tilda stepped out of the truck. The last thing she needed was the cop checking out or searching her vehicle. She couldn’t be sure there wasn’t blood on the floorboard where she’d tossed the kitchen knife. She hunched her shoulders and crossed her arms in front of her chest and stared at a frozen puddle on the graveled asphalt.
“Ma’am, please return to your car,” the officer directed, his voice tense and authoritative.
Tilda’s hand flew to her ears as the voices in her head screeched at her.
“Get in the car, ma’am, get in the car,” the trooper’s voice was loud and harsh in her head.
Tilda was paralyzed with indecision. The sound of her inner voices screamed at her. KILL HIM, KILL HIM, KILL HIM! The noise blocked any reality and judgment she still possessed.
“In the car, NOW,” the officer demanded, moving closer and closer as he pulled his radio from his pocket and spoke into it rapidly. He looked up and stared at her, his face suspicious.
Tilda turned and stumbled towards the car but slipped on the ice. It was then she noticed the blood on the side of her boot. Sarah’s blood. She grabbed for the door, catching the door handle just before she went down. She flung herself into the front seat, her torso over the console. She shielded the console with her body as she pulled out the Glock and tucked it under her arm.
The officer bent over and inspected the pink smear in the snow. He squatted to examine it closely.
Her game was up. She saw the cloud of suspicion cross the trooper’s face. He stood up. She straightened her body and reached for her seat belt as the trooper shined the light directly into her face. The light communicated intense pain into her brain as she raised her arm to shield her eyes from the light. She turned away from him as the voices screeched, Kill, Kill, Kill!
“Stop it, stop it, STOP IT,” she screamed as the weapon discharged, putting three slugs in the officer’s chest. He fell to the ground, his blood outlining her heavy truck tires as it pooled, bright red in the frozen snow and ice.
Tilda backed her truck up and screeched out onto the highway.