A Killer Christmas

Genre    Noel Nightmares     Author/Pen Name   Jean Booth  eBook Yes

A Killer Christmas

My dearest friend,

Today was a day I've never been fond of. Christmas Morning. However, with the memories J helped me make, all that my have changed.

You know that he's been killing, and that recently, I've joined in on a clinical level (he was getting sloppy, they'd almost caught up to him!), to help him continue his work and to try to understand why he does what it is he does.

This loathed morning; he had a present for me. It was zip-tied to the ceiling, unconscious and naked, except for a bright red bow tied around the belly and a photo of the person I abhorred most taped to the face, hiding the captive's true identity. I looked at J with disbelief.

"Happy Christmas darling," he said, grinning, as he held out a brand-new silver handled kitchen knife.

I didn't think this could be happening. I was still dreaming.

Numbly, I took the knife from his hands.

"Darling, what do you think of my gift?" he asked, hugging me from behind and deftly removing all my clothes.

We couldn't have any of the fibers to be used for identification.

"I'm not sure," I replied with a voice that quivered.

I'm still unsure as I write this, if I was excited or afraid. I think it was a bit of both. I knew then, as I still do, that there was no coming back, if I made that first cut. This was the point of no return.

"Well, don't look at the body, look at the picture. Remember what that person did to you, what they're still trying to do to you. Think of all the times you felt helpless as they cut you. They didn't even bother with the physical cuts. No. That vile being cut your emotional and mental ties with reality and society. That bastard slaughtered you from the inside out, not caring about what they were doing to you, or the repercussions of their actions. They just wanted you to hurt, to suffer."

J's voice purred in my ear, bringing me back to the memories hidden just under the surface.

"Do you remember?"

"Yes," I replied. The venom in my voice no longer surprised me.

"Then do what you could never do before. Defend yourself," he left me there, standing in my fury, the knife clutched firmly in my palm as tears of impotent rage streamed down my face.

I knew I was in a place where my anger would not be judged, where I could react and release my wrath in a way that wouldn't be looked down upon; rather, I'd be embraced with companionship and joy. But could I do it? Could I cross that line?

I don't remember the first slice. It wasn't until the intestines were oozing onto the ground and I was slipping in the blood, did I realize what I'd done. By then, I was lost in the blood lust and the power of destroying another's life. There wasn't an inch of skin on my captive that I hadn't cut open. The only thing left untouched was the photo covering the face.

Holding the hair in one hand, I sawed off the head with the knife that was slippery in my grasp. By the time it came off, I was soaked in the captive's blood and my sweat. I walked over toward the fireplace, knowing I'd have to clean up the bloody footprints and drips I was leaving in my wake. With a satisfied, almost wicked smirk, I tossed the head in. A weight I never knew I carried was released as the picture burned away, revealing the burning, blistered remains of my enemy.

It was the best Christmas I'd ever had.