SOMETHING IN THE WAY SHE MOVES

SOMETHING IN THE WAY SHE MOVES  

  A serial killer’s chance encounter paves the way to his next victim

 Unless some bitch lets him down.

Straightening my necktie in the mirror, I study my new dog, Lola6, sitting obediently at my feet. There is no love for me in her eyes, but pain is an excellent motivator.

As for me, I don’t require love, and loyalty means nothing. Those emotions paled years ago when my father stood, framed by the doorway and whistled for our beautiful retriever, Goldie. I learned that day what the love and loyalty of a dog is worth.

There was something in the way she moved, a golden waterfall of shimmering light as she bounded to his side before leaving me forever, that still burns in my mind. “Love always betrays you,” Mother declared that day. “And back-stabbing bitches earn a special place in hell.”  We never owned another dog while she was alive. 

I missed my father, but I cried for my Goldie. My mother was no comfort. She rubbed salt in that wound daily, “Why would a father choose a dog over his own son?” she asked, relentlessly. I knew why. He loved Goldie more than me, and he loved that wicked dog-training Lolita, more than my mother.

Lola6 shivered at my feet, straining to hold her position. I wasn’t sure she’d make the cut.

 From the table, the newspaper trumpeted its headline:
 
Family, Friends of Murdered Co-ed Plan Processional from Dump Site to Grave Site.

All the way there, I wondered about the girl whose empty shell had been found right where I’d left it. At the turnout, I could already see a large crowd gathered. I was haunted by questions: Who was she, really? What’s her true story? Who will miss her?

She’d taken me by surprise. She’d not been studied. It excited me that within their eulogies, the planets in her orbit would serve me those answers, offering up bits and pieces of her, like cuts of meat for my inspection. 

The shadow-clad gathering came to attention at last, dripping their grief like spoiled honey. I tip-toed into it. “My daughter was a sweet, kind, beautiful girl,” sobbed her mother. “She made everyone laugh. She was a beautiful soul.”

Blah blah blah, tell me something real. Juicy with truth, secrets laid bare. Friend and relatives jabbered on relentlessly…

“She treasured animals. Anyone who hurt...” her best friend, Janine, sniffled, tears cascading. I snapped to attention…

“I remember one time…” 

So did I.

My mind flashed to Lola6’s last training session near Campus Park Trail. I’d commanded her to stay, her leather leash trailing the ground. Watching from the bushes, I waited for her to move, clutching that little metal whistle with the slider that could ratchet decibels high enough to inflict pain.


Lola learned quickly, but she was new, and bait had to be perfect, extreme training required. I’d chosen a dark, foggy night to practice, positive we’d be alone, when ambling down the path, overloaded with books, the girl appeared. If she’d just minded her own damn business, she’d be studying for finals today. This was practice, not the real thing.

Lola was whining, whipping her head, as she approached. The girl gently lifted the leash, and was trying to coax my dog away when I stepped up behind her. Startled, she apologized, offering me the lead…but then she spotted the whistle. Her eyes narrowed and she began to curse…point…accuse…berate me. “Cruel…defenseless…bastard…abomination…” Her icy repugnance skewered mercilessly.

It was over in minutes. The leash pulled tight around the meddling witch’s neck…Lola6 struggling against the other end...but unlike the others…with no premeditation, I was forced to abandon her. Given a longer interlude, I might have spent more time on her, carving out those monstrous, interfering lips, bubbling with their venom, before burying her with the rest.

“So we’re asking for donations to the Antioch Center for Prevention of Cruelty….”

God…Janine…two peas in a pod…another Buttinsky…still… there’s something in the way she moves…

“And now, you’re invited to join the processional which will lead to your beloved’s final resting place,” droned the pastor. “Please follow, if you will.”

I stepped into the funeral procession as if it were my own. Fact is, I knew, without me, this party would all be academic. The world should be grateful. One less fucking, activist bitch to muddle it.

My gaze locked on Janine. Eyes on the prize, I moved forward with deliberate caution, keeping her in sight until I was alongside her, leading a parade of my own creation. My whole being radiated as we kept pace. I brushed against her once in the jostle of bodies, sending a tiny thrill skittering through me, exciting me.

When the procession reached the cemetery, I was loath to give up my forward position.  I’d certainly earned the place. I memorized Janine’s every feature as her outstretched arms drew people in. Finally, a calculated approach moved me right into her aura.

“Your words really touched me,” I told her. “I could tell they came from your heart.”

“I’m not sure how to go on,” she whimpered, wiping snot off her lip with a damp sleeve. “I-I don’t recognize you…did you know her?”

“She rescued my dog once,” I said, stepping closer.

“Oh my. That’s personal.”

“Yes,” I said, absorbing her essence. She inched backwards.

“Listen,” I began, “I’m dashing to work, but wanted make a donation. If I sent it to you, could you make it for me?” I felt giddy as she scribbled her address.

Alive with anticipation, I journeyed home to prepare my bait. Women are such suckers for wounded animals.

I opened the door and blew my whistle, but Goldie…I mean, Lola6, didn’t respond. Marching to my room, I found her still form, in repose.  “We’ve got work to do, 6!” I roared, adding a powerful prompt with my boot, but her head only lolled sideways, her tongue un-furling to brush the carpet. I shook her so hard her eyelids flapped open.

“YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME!” someone in my head screamed.

Stupid bitches. You can’t depend on any of them.

by taree Belardes 8/17/14

NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest 2014 

Genre; Drama

Location: A funeral procession

Object: A dog whistle

Time Limit: 48 hrs.

Word limit: 1000
(Round 1 challenge 1 flash)