Hidden Danger
by Amber Averay
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It is said that in life every person crosses paths with at least thirty-six murderers. Some of them are obviously strange, whether by manner or expression, behaviour or word. Some are suspected simply for the way they make people feel. But most are unnoticed by the masses. They walk among crowds of unsuspecting folk, unnoticed, unhindered. Free to plan, and dream, and fantasise.
Some are opportunity killers, who randomly attack when they seize the moment. Very little planning or forethought, just an out-of-the-blue slash-and-stab. There are the impulse killers, who break in to someone’s home or other lodging intent on stealing, become aware somebody is home, and commit murder in their panic to hide themselves and their actions.
Serial killers are more common than people know. The ‘truths’ told by experts, the media – anyonewith an opinion, basically – are lies. Repeat murderers are far more prevalent than anybody in law enforcement wants you to believe. Perhaps they want to ensure the masses feel safe, so they tweak the truth; press upon the sheep a white lie. What would you prefer to hear: that serial murderer numbers are burgeoning, but the cops can’t find us all because they’re not aware of us all? Or that our kind number in the few because we’re an anomaly, a rarity, and that when we do crop up the law catches us every time?
I like to think that we’re far smarter than credited – that, and perhaps the police forces of the world are so busy with the minor criminals choking the system that they miss us. Whatever the reason, for those of us serious about our craft we are the proverbial hidden danger. We draw little to no attention to ourselves, that we can continue living our lives without interruption or investigation.
I, myself, have been active for seventeen years. I work in a supermarket, stacking shelves, unpacking order pallets, sometimes helping customers find what they’re looking for. I smile, I am polite, and I do my job. I am efficient.
I am also invisible.
Today, at lunch, I am sitting in the food court of the shopping centre with my standard lunch of roast beef with vegetables and mushroom gravy, watching the world go by. At a nearby table a mother with young children snaps at the elder child, wipes the face of the younger, and fusses over the fractious baby. Somewhere behind me an elderly couple chatter about nonsensical things, but hold hands while they eat. Just entering the cafeteria is a pair of teenagers – apparently skipping school – mocking and sneering at others, being loud and rowdy and altogether unpleasant.
I start to imagine what I might do to them, if they were mine. The girl would be restrained to a chair, wrists and ankles shackled, head strapped to the rear of the seat and her eyes pinned open that she wouldn’t miss a thing. She would be positioned where she could see every single thing I did to her friend.
He, meanwhile, I would strap to a table and, taking my sharpest knife, would begin carving. Just shallow runes to start, frivolous images that would mean everything and nothing. Perhaps I might slice down to the bone a couple of times, to entertain the girl. Then I’d enlarge his nostrils, widen his mouth, remove his lips… Should I take his eyes? By this point he’d be reeking of urine and his evacuated bowel, crying, snotty, drooling. Would he last long enough to watch what I did to the girl?
As my thoughts turn to the other teenager I realise I’ve stopped eating and begun staring. I sneer at the kids, as if my only desire was to assure them they disgusted me, and resume having my lunch.
Yet my mind is now fully engaged, lost to the fantasy, and I imagine what I could do if I had the annoying customer from earlier this morning in my clutches. She would lose her tongue, almost immediately – foul use she puts it to she doesn’t deserve to keep it! – and I would tack it to the wall near her head, that she could see it – so close, but so far. Then perhaps I would clip off her fingers, moving knuckle by knuckle, until I was at her wrists. Maybe I would boil her feet, while they remained attached to her body…
Oh, the sounds she would make without a tongue in her head! Yet none of these people are my targets. No, I fantasise, I imagine, I dream, but rarely do I take anybody who can be even slightly linked to me. I can’t risk the connection. I won’t.
So these people are safe – from me, at least. I can’t promise that they will be free from the attentions of any others like me they will cross paths with. And they will pass others like me. Many. And some will not survive those encounters.
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