Soy un perdedor, I’m A Loser Baby, So Why Don’t You Kill Me?

[Loser – Glee Cast Cover, original by Beck]

I finished all my essays today, and I thought it shouldn’t hurt to share my Creative Fiction here – if the Uni asks, I can prove this is mine.

So yeah, here it is, very very Dexter-inspired.

Hear My Whispers In The Dark

These things tend follow a pattern, a routine that I sit through on auto-pilot, like the period of time between the wake-up alarm and the key in the ignition. Almost every aspect of my Ritual is done on auto-pilot, though I have to admit I do take pleasure in some parts.

I’ve often wondered – and I’m wondering again now, watching her show the first signs of consciousness – why I always wait for them to wake up. I suppose that the only variation I get in my Ritual is the conversation, which is why I let them wake up, just so I can talk to them. One can say that I am lonely, but I don’t like being around people enough for that to apply. I simply like to be stimulated by conversation.

“Where am I?” This is always the first question. I can’t blame her for the lack of originality; one moment she was about to get into her car – a normal, safe place in her life – and the next she wakes up in mine. The sense of displacement…I know that feeling. Except unlike for her, my experience won’t be ending within the next hour, but continue every day, no matter where I go. Everyone I see looks like me, but the things I do on a daily basis exist only in the most horrifying corners of their conscience.

I am that monster that slinks into people’s thoughts at night, the one who whispers ideas from the darkness.

The next part is interesting. I think I can tell what kind of conversation I will have just by what they do next. The kind that struggle, well, they’re bound to be the aggressive kind. Stupidly in denial, they would (try to) tear at their plastic wrap-trap, fighting against what they already know until the last strained breath.

I really like the ones who silently see what is happening to them, and then resign themselves to cry.  They say they deserve it, because they’re guilty of one thing or another. I don’t really care about what they did;  but I do like hearing their stories. If someone like me can have friends, I would call them my friends.

She says nothing, even though I know she’s fully coherent. I feel a small swell of satisfaction that I’d managed to find the better kind.

I dim the lights, like a cinema before the movie starts. I like going to the cinemas, and when the lights dim I’d know I am in for a treat. Maybe that’s why I dim the lights for her, and for the ones like her. Without the light, I get to see a great show without any light to distract me.

“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask. There isn’t actually a reason, apart from my own personal needs, but I like to know what she’ll say.

She still doesn’t answer, but she’s looking straight up at me. She’s fat – I wouldn’t pick her otherwise – so I try not to look at her body bulging under the layers of plastic wrapping. She’s not beautiful either, but under the dimmed light, and with her damp hair loosely framing her face, I can bear to look at her. She’ll look a lot better against the dark crimson of her own blood.

“Alright then, do you know who I am?” She moves her head side-to-side as far as the tape allows. She still doesn’t speak, but I can tell she is starting to abandon her initial shock.

I turn up the light again, drowning her imperfections. I move around the surrounding shadows, readying my equipment. The clanging of the blood collection tub that I toss unceremoniously near her head stirs some urgency into her.

“What is that? What’s it for?” she asks, starting to shift in her restraints. Once that shifting starts, it usually never stops, until I stop it.

“It’s to collect your blood. I find that having to mop it up is very hard work.” I pick up a pair of rusting scissors and a big, black garbage bag from the bench-top. Cutting a large hole into the bottom of the bag. I slip it over my head, and rip the plastic at the sleeves. I wrap the torn plastic around my arms, securing it with rubber-bands, making myself a disposable shirt with sleeves. Over this shirt, I put on my stained apron. During all this, she is quiet, but fully aware of every move I make; her breathing stops every time I make an exceptionally loud sound.

“Why are you going to kill me?” she asks the moment I appear in her field of vision.

“Well,  there isn’t a section at the butcher’s for my liking, so I basically have to go out into the farm, or what you would call your neighbourhood, and kill one for myself.” I lean closer to her distastefully ugly face, “I’m just being a smart-arse. Yeah, I’m going to eat you.”

Her eyes grow big, as her face expands to accommodate for the sudden surplus of fear. The monster has swaggered into the light, announcing itself. But the thing that is really making her writhe harder in her bonds is the realization that the monster had always been there, just beyond the pool of light.

“Will it hurt?”

Of all the before-meal conversations I’ve had (that I remember, anyway), this is the first time that someone has accepted their fate so quickly.

“Will it hurt? Is that all you’re going to ask? I’m going to be eating you! Bleed you out, cut you up, and skin you! You’ll be made into stew, roast, stir-fry…come on!” I slam a fist down onto her torso, immediately regretting bruising her flesh. “Beg for your life! Don’t you want to get out? For fuck’s sake, woman!” She stares into my eyes, a glow burning in her eyes from the reflection of the light.

“Why would I beg? There’s no way of getting out,” she shifts slightly, and then closes her eyes, breathing out like she’s waiting for her attractive masseur to start on her. Through her closed eyelids, I can still feel the embers of that glow.

“Yes, yes it will hurt. I will cut your carotid artery, and let you bleed out. This table can be tilted sideways, and your blood will flow through these little channels on the table here, and into this tub. Through all this, you cannot move. I am good at this; I’ll make sure to draw out the bleeding for as long as possible. The only consolation I can give you,” I completely turn off the light, and wait until the friendly darkness has settled heavily before continuing, “is that at the end, you’ll be able to see ‘the light’ that you so believe in.”

In the darkness, just below me, I hear her breathing, slowly and deliberately.  I synchronise my breathing with hers, pushing out my rare anger and pulling in a lungful of my old friend. The smoothness of my Ritual comes back to me.

When the lights go back on, she is different, her eyes are just another part of her flesh. I don’t want to talk to her, and I definitely don’t want to look at her. I’m simply hungry, and this is a step I have to take before I can satiate that hunger. I move to my bench. The familiar layout of my equipment brings the buzz back into my arms. I tug out two latex gloves, put them on, and pick up my scalpel. Moving back towards the table, I survey over the mass before me, making a final decision, and cut into the carotid artery by the side of the neck. A pool of dark red forms almost immediately, its clean integrity smeared by squirming. I slip the scalpel in my apron pocket, and move to the crank by the table. A few turns of the handle, and the pool of red slide down past her left shoulder and start rolling steadily into the tub.

I tear off my right glove, and turn on some music. Every piece of equipment that is in this room has its use in different steps of my Ritual, and my speakers have served me well. Chris Martin’s voice drowns out the growing whimpers from the table. Grabbing a chair, I dim the lights to the weakest rays, sit by the table, and wait.

Lights will guide you home, and ignite your bones, and I will try to fix you.



I don’t know if you have heard about the family that has been killed in their sleep in NSW’s North Epping.

Here are the details of the case:

Lin family’s killer walked into their North Epping home before he massacred family

Reading the article, I was just hit by the fact that the family’s 15 year old daughter is now left to live the rest of her life alone, with the knowledge that her two parents and two brothers were killed brutally – and I mean brutally. The force of this attack is more than just shooting or slashing – while she was away. She’d be left for the rest of her life haunted by the thought; “it could’ve been me” and maybe even “I wish it had been me too” because now she is alone.

My thoughts go out to her.


“Wrong Dani!”

Those words were uttered by Dani to the other Dani upon catching her (the first Dani’s) boyfriend with the other Dani, who is not the first Dani.

I arrived at Bee’s Murder Mystery early, even though I’d timed myself to arrive after the bouncer, Al Capone, a.k.a Ryan. Ryan was late.

I tried to get in with the code that I’d cracked “The Night Is Young” but it turned out Bianca had sent a few of us fake passwords. I refused to pay Ryan money upon his arrival.

Everyone else arrived as 6:30 came upon us, all “dressed to the nines” (I don’t get the saying. Someone explain it?).

We started a confused game of Poker, waiting for “Big Jim” (Mash) to arrive. When he did, the night started.

Now, Carrie Crooner, aka Shaz, was meant to drop a note for me. However something happened and she dropped it without my noticing, and when we went back to find it, we realized Don Wannabe, aka Andrew, had taken it. Thus ensued about 20 minutes and a LOT of money paid to get the stupid note back.

To get the money, I actually had to go to Vicky Ravioli and Baroness Ravioli, (Carmaine and Felicia respectively) and threatened to tell “Big Jim” about our separate affairs if they didn’t pay me money.

Then, the first scandal of the night happened.

I made Carrie Crooner (please remember who they represent. Carrie was Shaz) talk to Don Wannabe (Andrew) to get the note back, and so to get some privacy they went into the bathroom.

Bee’s house…well the downstairs anyway, didn’t have many places where one can have a private conversation without being overheard, as we soon found out. So when Carrie and Don went into the bathroom, I informed Madame Meme (Dani) and “Big Jim” (Mash) that their respective spouses were in the bathroom with the other. And so several photos came out of that.

A lot of blackmailing, threats and fliratious “Hello Inspector” from D.P. happened (oops, to clarify, my character was Inspector Nutella – don’t ask). Then, the first murder of the night happened.

“Big Jim” was making a speech when the lights flickered (a few times too many) and SHOCK! “Big Jim” collapsed to the floor, shot dead.

And so I had to present the evidence. I was probably suppose to read them properly but never did.

After that, more blackmailing and extortion (not to mention money stealing and bra padding (with the money stolen)) happened.

3 more people died. Mayor Bumpkin (Mash’s 2nd character, who got killed again ‘cos he went and blackmailed Don Wannabe who then hired Al Capone (Ryan) who then got Sylvia (D.P…well Tranny Dani in this case because her character was initially male) to kill the Mayor…it’s complicated) was smashed to death by a brick in a purse. Rebecca Ravioli (Emily), daughter of “Big Jim” was poisoned by a poison flask by the door and Baroness Ravioli, mother of “Big Jim” (as acted by Fel, and also apparently having an affair with myself) was killed by an Ice Pick in the bathroom.

How did they get killed? Well, we were all given 10 minutes to go on a hunt for “weapon cards”. I teamed up with Vicky (Carmaine) but we failed (sorry Carmaine! I did work out “Shoes” though). We also drew for Action Cards but I got a blank. Emily got a “Truth Card” but I didn’t have any knowledge to impart (I spent most of the night lounging around).

Don Wannabe was caught in the bathroom AGAIN with Sylvia. That was when Madame Meme (Dani) went to Andrew, “Baby, wrong Dani.”

At the end of the night, we filled out a form detailing who we thought killed whom, and who was best dressed, and I got to read out the solution.

“Big Jim” Ravioli, the scripted murder of the night, was murdered by none other than his own daughter, Rebecca (Emily)! Turned out Rebecca had lied about her gun being stolen.

We know that the Mayor (Mash again) was killed by D.P. being hired by various people, all leading towards Don Wannabe.

I forgot who the Baroness was killed by, though.

Secrets were revealed, Eunice (Carrie Crooner’s mother whose Character name escapes me) is a prostitute, and it turned out Rebecca had secretly been married to D.P.’s transvestite character.

And my two women, The Baroness and Vicky Ravioli, were both seeing Toto Tequila (Greg) behind my back. Which was actually funny because Carmaine would come into the room and un-sussly grab Greg. We’d all hoot and yell “CRADLE SNATCHER!”

Look, dinner calls, and there isn’t much else to write. It was one of the funniest nights I’ve had in a long time! Happy birthday, Bianca (Cassandra Steal).