Principalis Animula

The cat arched its back as it leaned against my arm and nuzzled its head against my leg. His black fur stood on end. A little quiver ran through his body as he stretched. By that time in my life (I was thirteen) I was just starting to grasp the concept that certain species craved attention and affection from others—the Non especially. I’d come to realize that it was I who was different, but still hadn’t considered what that might mean.

I had no desire to pet the cat, or for it to continue touching me. I never derived comfort from animals, and their constant insistence on pressing themselves against me was beyond my understanding. It was infuriating. Nauseating. As ridiculous as it must seem I felt threatened by it in some way. There was a pressure in my chest anytime a living being, human or animal, invaded my space. My heart would race and my throat would become dry, my breathing labored.

This time was no different. I felt it building inside me; my hands trembled.

What might surprise you is that I felt no emotion when I picked the cat up and set it on my lap. No rage or anger, no sympathy, no confusion or fear--just that continually rising pressure. The feline rubbed its face against my t-shirt and twisted onto its back on my crossed legs. It purred and wriggled playfully in an effort to reach those hard to scratch areas, completely unaware of the danger it was in. I rubbed my hand along its belly and felt the ribcage beneath the skin. The cat closed its eyes and purred louder with my touch. I may have smiled then. I stroked him a few times while he lay contented on his back and contorted himself into various unusual positions that didn’t look the least bit comfortable.

I scratched under his chin with both hands. I could feel the vibrations of his pleasure under my fingertips. My jaw tensed. My teeth clenched. The muscles in my neck and shoulders tightened, then my triceps, biceps and forearms. My cock. Sweat pricked my forehead and my heart slammed in my chest.

He must have sensed it. His eyes snapped open the instant before my hands clamped shut around his throat.

I didn’t expect the fight it would put up. He writhed with claws out, raking the skin of my forearms. He kicked wildly at my stomach, shredding the fabric of my shirt. The sting of a light breeze on my wounds strengthened my resolve. I squeezed harder, my thumbs completely buried in the fur of his neck. His bright green eyes bulged and stared at me with shock and betrayal. Its mouth opened and closed several times without a sound.

For a brief second, his struggles faltered and his eyes seemed to lose focus. His legs twitched. I started to loosen my grip. He hissed in a harsh, ragged breath and whirled, trying to jump off of me. An instinctive panic surged through me—a need for self-preservation. I grabbed a handful of fur and tail. He tried to shriek, but it came out as a rasp. He spun on me and tried to bite my hand, but his movements were sluggish, and he didn’t have a chance. My hands found his throat again. I could feel blood trickling down my forearms and dripping from my wrists, falling bright onto the cat’s dark fur.

He fought fiercely for his life. I’ve had humans give up more quickly than that fucking cat did. But in the end he failed. I felt a crack beneath my fingers, and the fight went out of him instantly. His green eyes dilated and rolled back in his head. He went limp in my hands.

I was a mess. My hands were caked in dirt and blood. Deep gouges marked both of my inner arms, some still seeping. I’d taken off my torn tee and used it to wipe them off, but it hadn’t helped to do much other than to further ruin the shirt. Halfway home, I shoved it into a rain gutter. I knew better than to bring it with me into the house. My stepfather had been dead for years, but mom had learned plenty and was no less vicious on her own. In some ways, she was probably more so.

I snuck in, prepared for the worst. I needn’t have worried. She was plenty occupied by whatever dreams had been in the needle on the table by the couch.

Causa Mortis

It never ceases to amaze me how much expense and effort is dedicated to the discovery of how and why one has left this world. Pathologists, medical examiners, and coroners have actually devoted their lives to the scrutiny of the carcasses of man. I suppose they may provide some measure of closure (both figuratively and literally) for the families of the deceased, but I think I can say with confidence that the manner of death itself is not a matter of much consequence to the cadaver on the slab.

The reason for one's end is never really a question by the time they are unmade in a morgue—their flesh peeled and carved; bones broken, cleaved and sawed apart; organs removed, weighed, measured, and dissected. I believe I have more than enough experience in such matters to state with reasonable certainty that the cause of death is always a heart that no longer beats, but maybe I'm oversimplifying just a bit. And even if one would like to take it a step further and find out what precisely stopped that heart? That too is usually fairly obvious. A fatality is rarely a spontaneous event, especially in cases of a beautiful, brutal demise.

Violent criminals have what is known as an MO—a modus operandi or "method of operation." It doesn’t usually change much from victim to victim, but we can be a slightly obsessive bunch, and like things perfect. So we tweak it until it’s just right. Think of it like a lasagna recipe that over time gets a smidge more garlic, basil, or oregano to enhance the final product. The coroner will designate the cause of death as lasagna, but will also examine that lasagna to determine the ingredients used. Then investigators try to determine how the recipe might have evolved from that chef's very first lasagna--a kind of reverse engineering. The hope is that they can learn something about the cook and his evolution in the process.

Sadly, most killers tend to be rather bland and uninventive and subsist on a strict diet of lasagna. I, on the other hand, enjoy a full repertoire—a nice extensive menu. It's far more interesting, and tends to keep my predators looking for a number of different cooks instead of just me. Of course, I have my favorites and specialties, but frankly, even the most spectacular dishes can get tiresome if that is all you are eating. And if I am being completely honest (and why shouldn't I be in my own blog), that is one of the reasons that most others in my "profession" are vastly inferior chefs.

So, a medical examiner savors my entrees and fills in the blanks. Cause of death: lobster stuffed beef tenderloin. Cause of death: chicken with avocado and roasted pepper cream. Cause of death: spinach and parsnip pasta (a personal favorite). Cause of death: honey-mustard glazed salmon. Cause of death: braised duck with mushroom.

Where I place my blade or blow is simply a pinch of saffron, my weapon a nice demi-glace. Hmmm, what shall we have for dessert?

But really, if death itself is no more than the failure of a heart to beat, and the cause of death is what compelled that heart to beat its last—would that not be me?

Yes, I think it would.

I am the cause of death.

Dominatus Desideria

She was the genesis of my evolution.

The whore was inconsequential. Her death was not. There were so many possibilities that I’d never considered before. Killing her was greater than the simple fulfillment of a need. It was infinitely enjoyable. It was a learning experience—a study of the limits of human physiology, both hers and mine. And it had been financially rewarding, which was a pleasant, if unexpected, bonus.

But I had lost control, which I innately understood could not continue. I had left potential evidence at the scene. Though I was reasonably confident my semen hadn’t survived the inferno the motel room had become, it had still been an unnecessary risk. I might have been seen coming or going from the hotel room. It was sloppy. Stupid. Dangerous.

For days after, I felt something that I hadn’t since childhood—apprehension. It was wasted on the ineptitude of idiots. The investigation was brief, and the slut took the blame for burning down the motel as planned. She was the only one to have died that evening, and no one was in any great hurry to defend a hooker’s honor. I was safe, but realized if I could not learn to master my desires it would only be a matter of time before I was caught. That was not an acceptable outcome. There was, and still is, far too much at stake.

From that point on, I learned to evaluate not only what I was doing, but why. I forced myself to exert restraint over my behaviors, even when it seemed they were critical to my fulfillment. I found ways to randomize my victims and methods. I experimented, with mixed results. At times, I denied myself entirely, forcing myself to forego even the most insatiable of my appetites. I changed. I learned. I became. Soon the challenge of killing in new ways evolved my motivation—each victim an opportunity to rediscover and reinvent myself. The unmaking of the Non is now just as much my release as theirs, though admittedly in very different manners of speaking. I am kept as sharp as my blades by the perpetual whetting of power, intuition, and control.

It is much more satisfying to let chance choose my prey and determine the manner by which I bestow them to the Else. It requires me to discern their thoughts, sense their intentions, anticipate and manipulate their actions. I must know them. It allows me to experience human nature without ever being a part of it, removed like a merciless God commanding pieces in a game of magnificent carnage. I can allow the universe to choose and be the executioner of its every whim.

But there has always been a greater purpose. A waiting destiny.

And now it’s time to fulfill it.

I’m coming, Nicholas.