wanted different things in life, but we’d been happy again. Those were the words they received from the grieving girlfriend, oh how I wished I could have told them the truth.
Now I yearned to put the long, agonizing nights behind me where he drunkenly and in desperation had pulled me around by the hair as a painful punishment because I would not admit that it was my fault that the apples, purchased in a sealed bag, had brown spots and tasted of flour. Or the days when I received a stinging slap because it was raining and he wanted to sit on the terrace.
“It’s not because it’s your fault. I’m just so sad. What should I do?” he asked one evening when he had pushed me to the floor and kicked me in the stomach.
The question was always rhetorical since I never responded. But no matter what he chose to get excited and angry about, the sorrow redeemed him by taking it out on me. Afterwards he wept helplessly, hugged me, kissed me sincerely and touched me. I was helpless and lost. I just let him do what he wanted, while tears of pain were streaming down my face. I felt dirty and powerless. My head was pressed against his muscular shoulder, and he held me close to him, so we avoided eye contact. He held me in an iron grip, like a drowning man who has caught the last board from a sinking boat.
But his fingers were devious and cunning and astutely they would walk down into my lap, and I felt my body take over while I heard his softly moaning in my ears. My body was easy to convince and, reluctantly, I was soon wet. Slowly but desperately, his moves drove me to orgasm while he whispered with a sweet and slightly raspy voice that he could not live without me. I was the only one who understood him; I was the only one in his life. He used such tender words while he smeared soothing ointment on all the places where he had hurt me. It was deeply shameful, pitiful and disgusting.
Afterwards I was limp, exhausted and discouraged, my eyes were closed, and he carried me to bed and put the covers tightly around me. He looked at me with pleading eyes, and said he loved me; and while I sank into a deep sleep, I imagined that moment, and all the different ways he would have to pay - soon.
The next day everything would be back to normal, at least Verner’s version of normal. We never spoke and as if it had happened he was sweet and gallant, but already distracted and preoccupied with his own thoughts. It was as if he were already underway with developing a quirky to plan as to what the next thing to piss him off would be.
In the bathroom I would try to wash away the shame, the shame of finding pleasure and release from his violence. I smeared on a thick layer of makeup to hide the bruises, sighed into the mirror while I found myself comfortable in a state of waiting for when he would call me so I could either laugh and feel unique, maybe even loved and important, or be punished for things I had not done. It was a ritual that in the beginning only rarely occurred, but as time passed, it became more and more frequently repeated. Thus, I was part of the predator’s world.
Now at his final curtain call, tucked behind my big sunglasses and with a cup of coffee untouched in front of me, I thought about how good it was that I didn’t have to work. It really would have put a big damper on my life and my ‘special projects’.
In popular movies and novels serial killers have a job, but in the real world, it is hardly possible to juggle an ordinary life and an effective number of killings at the same time, and certainly not just in Denmark. I had to travel far and wide and select men from other countries; if I were ‘active’ in only one area it would be too conspicuous, and the men I killed could be traced back to me in different ways. There is a reason that real serial killers are often shy and live a secluded life. It was, I realized, because I thought I had met a few on my travels. I had never spoken to one, just recognized the
Now I yearned to put the long, agonizing nights behind me where he drunkenly and in desperation had pulled me around by the hair as a painful punishment because I would not admit that it was my fault that the apples, purchased in a sealed bag, had brown spots and tasted of flour. Or the days when I received a stinging slap because it was raining and he wanted to sit on the terrace.
“It’s not because it’s your fault. I’m just so sad. What should I do?” he asked one evening when he had pushed me to the floor and kicked me in the stomach.
The question was always rhetorical since I never responded. But no matter what he chose to get excited and angry about, the sorrow redeemed him by taking it out on me. Afterwards he wept helplessly, hugged me, kissed me sincerely and touched me. I was helpless and lost. I just let him do what he wanted, while tears of pain were streaming down my face. I felt dirty and powerless. My head was pressed against his muscular shoulder, and he held me close to him, so we avoided eye contact. He held me in an iron grip, like a drowning man who has caught the last board from a sinking boat.
But his fingers were devious and cunning and astutely they would walk down into my lap, and I felt my body take over while I heard his softly moaning in my ears. My body was easy to convince and, reluctantly, I was soon wet. Slowly but desperately, his moves drove me to orgasm while he whispered with a sweet and slightly raspy voice that he could not live without me. I was the only one who understood him; I was the only one in his life. He used such tender words while he smeared soothing ointment on all the places where he had hurt me. It was deeply shameful, pitiful and disgusting.
Afterwards I was limp, exhausted and discouraged, my eyes were closed, and he carried me to bed and put the covers tightly around me. He looked at me with pleading eyes, and said he loved me; and while I sank into a deep sleep, I imagined that moment, and all the different ways he would have to pay - soon.
The next day everything would be back to normal, at least Verner’s version of normal. We never spoke and as if it had happened he was sweet and gallant, but already distracted and preoccupied with his own thoughts. It was as if he were already underway with developing a quirky to plan as to what the next thing to piss him off would be.
In the bathroom I would try to wash away the shame, the shame of finding pleasure and release from his violence. I smeared on a thick layer of makeup to hide the bruises, sighed into the mirror while I found myself comfortable in a state of waiting for when he would call me so I could either laugh and feel unique, maybe even loved and important, or be punished for things I had not done. It was a ritual that in the beginning only rarely occurred, but as time passed, it became more and more frequently repeated. Thus, I was part of the predator’s world.
Now at his final curtain call, tucked behind my big sunglasses and with a cup of coffee untouched in front of me, I thought about how good it was that I didn’t have to work. It really would have put a big damper on my life and my ‘special projects’.
In popular movies and novels serial killers have a job, but in the real world, it is hardly possible to juggle an ordinary life and an effective number of killings at the same time, and certainly not just in Denmark. I had to travel far and wide and select men from other countries; if I were ‘active’ in only one area it would be too conspicuous, and the men I killed could be traced back to me in different ways. There is a reason that real serial killers are often shy and live a secluded life. It was, I realized, because I thought I had met a few on my travels. I had never spoken to one, just recognized the
Similar Books
