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Twins in Death: Chapter Five – Part One

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Chapter Five: The Home Life

 

 

October 23rd, 2002

6:16 p.m.

 

            “Well.” Our as yet unnamed killer said. “That was fun.”

 

            He didn’t really mean it though, he was actually disappointed. He had felt alive when he killed the father, and tasted the blood as it sprayed on his face. Two droplets had landed on his tongue and how lovely they had tasted to him. He had felt strong when he took the wife, strangling her while he was still inside her. He had been disappointed though that he hadn’t come, he couldn’t make himself rise again. He had wanted to violate the children, but he couldn’t summon his member to rise again. He had tried, but he just couldn’t make himself erect again.

 

            Once he had killed them, then his body finally reacted properly. He had thought about doing the boy then, but the moment had passed. He couldn’t rape a corpse once the moment was over, so he had left him on the banister. He went to the decapitated head of the mother and brushed the hair gently, kissing the cold forehead. He looked at the place where the father lay, and wanted to tell him that it hadn’t been personal.

 

            It was only that he had to destroy them because of what they were. They had been the perfect family, and thus he had to destroy them for that. He had spent so long making sure that no one had been fooling around, that the kids weren’t on drugs or anything. He had them watched all day and night, just to make sure no one hit the kids or yelled at them. He had checked their finances to make sure no one was borrowing too much or was in debt. He had even gotten a man to install tiny microphones to make sure the kids said their prayers at night. They had been the perfect family, and that was why he had to destroy them.

           

            He lifted the severed head of the wife and looked into her open eyes. She had been dead before he had cut her head off, so there hadn’t been much blood. He had wanted more blood, which had disappointed him too. There had been a lot of blood at the last one, so much blood he had been soaked in it. He had been able to do the whole family on that one, Mom, Dad, son and daughter. He’d kept them alive longer though, had kept them screaming longer, maybe that was the problem.

 

            No, the problem was that this wasn’t doing it anymore. He knew it and he suspected they knew it too. He could hear their voices when things got very quiet, like they did now. They knew he wasn’t happy anymore, and they knew the answer. The answer lay in The Weirdo. He was going to have to go after The Weirdo, and he knew it. Had he known about the suggestive nature, and that the buzzing in his head was actually due to tiny robots buzzing around his head and not insanity as he suspected, he still wouldn’t actually care. He would do the bidding of the buzz, and kill The Weirdo.

 

            He looked at the other dead bodies and then at the dinner table. Dad had just been carving a leg of lamb for the kids, and Mom was serving mashed potatoes. He smiled as he looked at the severed head in his hand and then at the table. He set the head down on the couch and began to look around for some rope and tape.

 

            “Oh yes, we’ll make a jolly occasion.”

 

 

June 4th, 1851

3:09 p.m.

England

 

            She would have been beautiful, The Weirdo judged if she’d let her hair down and remove the glasses. Actually it wasn’t even the glasses or the hair, it was her attitude.  If she would just relax, and learn to slink, she would have been able to bring men to their knees. She was straight and proper though, and would not do such a thing. Her job was to teach him languages, and that was what she was doing. He’d left three times and been returned three times, he came to the conclusion that he was going to have to do this learning thing. So he was learning languages from Miss Parker.

 

            Once he got over the resentment of being forced to be here, he actually found he enjoyed it. Miss Parker was possibly the best language teacher that ever lived. In fact if the clown was to be believed, she was the greatest teacher of languages that ever did or ever would live. She was the best and she was going to teach him everything about the act of speaking he would ever need to know. She had been informed of the need by his benefactor, the good-looking older man in gray clothes. He had paid her in advance for five years of work. She was to teach him all the languages she was capable of teaching. That was the theory anyway, what she had not anticipated was that he would be so difficult to teach.

 

            The problem was not that he didn’t learn; he did. He learned quickly and easily, with an amazing skill for dialects and accents. The problem was that he was a good-looking young man who had a sense of his own value as a physical specimen. He was a teaser, and would recite doggerel in Latin to see if she was listening. She would blush to hear him speaking some of the most obscene things in the languages. He would say them, she would try to get angry and he’d smile.

 

            He had a horrible smile, mainly because it was such a beautiful smile. He could calm the raging seas with that smile of his, if only he’d use it for something useful. It was no wonder the girls would come around to see him, even though he seemed to have little more than a passing interest in them. He had said a few times before, when asked by the lads in town, that he had little use for a woman with nothing in her pretty head.

 

            She was putting a book back on the shelf and thought she could feel his eyes again, which was foolish of course. This was a professional relationship, nothing more, nothing less. He was just a sort of incorrigible fool who liked to tease. He also had a way of looking that made you fully aware that he was fully and completely watching. He wouldn’t just undress with his eyes, he seemed able to molest with his eyes.

 

            “Il y avait par le passé un homme de Nantucket.” He began.

 

            “NO!” She said spinning around. “I will not have you befoul my beloved French with your…”

 

            “Yes?” He asked, trying not to look too smug.

 

            He had already won this round and they both knew it. His flowing black locks of hair cascading around his collar, his dark eyes regarding her with false innocence, the smirk playing on his full lips. She wouldn’t show him that she felt a need to catch her breath, but he knew anyway. His head tilted slightly and her eyes narrowed as the fullness of the facts came to her mind.

 

            “I haven’t actually taught you French yet.” She said.

 

            “No.” He said. “I could go on and say qui a eu un pénis ainsi désirent ardemment il pourrait le sucer.”

 

            “You haven’t got it quite right.” She said.

 

            “I couldn’t find all the words, I had to improvise.”

 

            “I meant your accent.” She said straitening up again. “It’s deplorable.”

 

            “My accent?”

 

            “And your attitude.”

 

            “Does this mean you’ll never love me?” He asked as he looked back down the pronunciation guide again. “What did I mispronounce then?”

 

            “I won’t tell you, because we are working on Russian.”

 

            “Spoilsport.” He said.

 

            “I am not.” She said, looking at another book spine to hide her reddening cheeks. “I have a fine sense of humor.”

 

            “Tell me a joke then.” He said.

 

            “I…” She stopped “I can’t just come up with a joke like that.”

 

            “You know when you blush it ends at your jaw line.” He said not looking up from the pronunciation guide.

 

            “What?”

 

            “Yes, your neck never turns red. The blushing ends just at your jaw.” He smiled to himself and then glanced up at her. 

 

            The crack had the desired effect because she pulled the pin from her hair and left the mahogany coils fall down across her face. The effect was meant to conceal her face, but the coils of hair only framed it. If he could get her to remove her glasses he could see what she really looked like.

 

            She turned and pulled her glasses off, cleaning them with her silk handkerchief.

 

            “I really don’t see what this has to do with… what are you staring at?”

 

            She was beautiful, shame that she was always locked up in this room.

 

            “Why Miss Parker, you’re beautiful.”

 

            “Please.” She said.

 

            “I see why Mister Thomson pays you those visits now.” He leaned back in the chair and his tongue slipped across his lower lip.

 

            “It is none of your concern.” She said primly. “I am a professional woman and professional women are not beautiful, we are professional.”

 

            “Beautiful.” He said grinning like an impish child.

 

            “You are being foolish.” She said sliding the glasses back on.

 

            “Now you’re merely pretty.” He said, sounding a bit crestfallen. “You think the glasses hide it, but they don’t spoil it. You spoiled it by being a spoilsport. The glasses show off those lovely blue eyes of yours.”

 

            “Are you trying to be improper?” She asked.

 

            “No. I don’t have to try to be improper, I do that without trying.” He said looking back down at the book again. “I’m trying to convince you that if you had a little more confidence in yourself you’d really be something.”

 

            “I am already something.”

 

            “But not what you want to be.” He said flipping the page.

 

            “I am teaching you, you are not teaching me.” She said.

 

            “You love him?” He asked.

 

            “What?”

 

            “Do you love him?”

 

            “Who?”

 

            “Thompson.”

 

            “I haven’t considered it.” She said dismissively. “And what business is it of yours I’d like to know?”

 

            She didn’t blush at the question; she had no interest in Thompson one -way or the other. He was glad of that because he didn’t like Thompson either. Thompson was a twonk. When she asked what business it was of his though there was a spark. He liked that spark, because it made her truly beautiful. He didn’t like watching her go to waste and he was determined now, he was going to help get her a decent husband. He knew he couldn’t have her, she was far too proper and he’d be leaving after they were done. He would have to build her confidence up and find her a proper husband though.

 

            “You want to buy a new dress you do.” He said reaching for another book and opening it. “Something with style, with flair to it.”

 

            “Do I?” She said, and felt amazed that while looking at the book he could seem to be focusing all his attention on her. She felt like she had been stripped bare and that he was examining every inch of her with a magnifying glass.

 

            “I wish I could get you into one of those numbers the flappers wear at the clubs.”

 

            “The who?’

 

            “Never mind.” He said standing. “You wouldn’t wear it anyway.”

 

            “I so often don’t know what you’re talking about.” She said.

 

            “It’s only because I love you so.” He said quickly stepping to her, placing his hands over hers, and looking like a fool in love. “It makes me talk in the craziest of manners.”

 

            “And now you’re being foolish again.”

 

            “I wasn’t aware I’d stopped.” He said and smiled again. “I mean what’s this about me doing it again?”

 

            Oh, yes, now he had a plan, there was just time to implement it between Mandarin Chinese and Dutch. Which he did, and managed to make it work. She married a duke who loved her for the rest of her life and she loved him. He also learned the languages and the day of her wedding was his last day with her.

 

© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

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November 11, 2012 - Posted by | Fiction | ,

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