Number Eight

[This piece, and Number Seven, are character concept scenes for a serial killer inspired novel I began some time ago. I ultimately decided that this didn't work for me, writing out these two scenes made me aware of the extreme issues that a female serial killer would contend with every time, and how troublesome it would be for her to try to get away with such crimes.

As it stands: these are just character study pieces, and nothing more. She does not have a name, or age. After writing these pieces I couldn't decide on any of those details. If I revisit this and work the novel to life, I might edit these two pieces and shape her up quite nicely. As it stands: this is the seed to an abandoned work.

Enjoy]

The bag she dragged was heavy. Thick, course canvas; old and worn from years of use. She gripped it in her hands with a tight, powerful grappling hold on the gathered ends. Its long threads lapped and swayed, swatting her hands and wrists. Its long neck of worn woven threads taut over her shoulder blade.

Step after step. Left then right.

Slow, digging, deep steps with her body flung forward to wrench against the heavy weight that fought her as she made her way up the hill. Her slick goulashes squeaked and slipped over rocks and roots. Heel and toe gouging out grooves in the mud, shifting in the decay of matted tines and lifeless flora.

Upwards, upwards. An uneven rhythm. Every few steps she took her heel caught the fat of the sack with a burdened thud. With each odd cadence the fabric would slack and then stretch taut again, drawing against her.

The way in the woods was dark, bleak. The tall trees overhead blotted out the night sky, tarns of light cast here and there. The air was fresh and sweet when the wind blew; when the air was still the rot of the earth filled her nose.

In and out. Her breathing was labored, but steady.

Upward, onward. Many more miles to go through the woods, in the night.

Twigs cracked under foot and sack, screaming out in the dark, protesting against the abuse. Nocturnal proclamations, announcing her passing; but there was no one around to see. She was unseen and unknown. She didn't concern herself with the distant crunch of leaves this time; it was no one—only the gentle of a hooved animal. Time had made her familiar with the simple sounds of the forest around her.

Over the jutting roots of a banyan tree, under the branches of an aged and distressed oak, she made her way. Unthinking.
Yes, she knew the way well but that did not afford her time to think and ponder and wonder, no. No need for that. Her mind was void of all quandaries. She was silent in thought. Almost in meditation. Only the sounds of heaviness being dragged behind. Only the sounds of boots on unkempt earth.

The way in was pocked with plants across the hilled landscape. Rivers of deep shadow wove around mounds of earth that nipped at her thighs and swallowed her whole. She pressed forward. Her burdened melody in the night.

A slow burning ache began to work its way out of her shoulder blade, tensing with each step, growing uncomfortably.

Under towering pines and the piercing stares of unseen animals. Quiet in the night as they hid tensed, inert; peering between limbs and through holes to watch her passage.

Without breaking stride she shifted her grip, hoisted the taut fabric neck from one side to the other, and lumbered on. The burning ache eased but still remained, she grimaced. The way in would become more difficult as time passed and the night wore on.

Forward, further in.

Sweat broke, running down her back under her thick coat; soaked through her waist band. She disregarded any discomfort and only narrowed her eyes, seeing into the way forward.

The woods thickened, the way forward narrowed further. She glanced up. There was no break in the trees overhead, no peeking eye of the moon though she knew it was there, gleaming bright on the top of the canopy. Her heavy canvas sack roughed and tugged on trunks and roots as she pulled it through.

Just her, her burden, and the path forward. Her eyes began to swim from the darkness. From forcing herself to focus in the blanket of night. Still, she pressed forward. Not able to turn back even if she wanted.

No, that is certainly not what she wanted. It had taken eight months for Number Eight to meet his end. Who was she to ever turn down such a lot so apropos?

In life he was quite the smarm. In death, she had to admit, he went with bit of savoir faire.

It was fitting. It was ideal. She knew this, she didn't need to further assure herself. The only reason for her hesitance was the time. The passage of time as her feet delved and anchored into the soft earth below time and again, propelling her forward.

After making her way through the mire and the wild, the mounds and piles of earth sloped downward. The way was easier, now, only just.

There was a fitful tugging of the heavy sack behind her as it gave less resistance and bobbed side to side, lolling and toppling about, sending a wave of irritation through her. She shoved the irritation and aggravation away, refusing to let anything sour her now. Not after all that time. The way up wasn't to be dulled with mood like an oily smear on a fine wineglass.

A whip of frigid dank air lashed out at her as she came down from the last hill, it’s slope pocked with boulders and fallen, rotted trunks. She was close. Her steps quickened. Just a little further, not too much longer and she would be there.

She braced against the downhill slope. Slowly as not to send her bulky ward tumbling headlong. Leaning back ever so slightly with sure, careful, firm footing. The slope gave way to the embankment. The embankment was soon covered with slick moss and fresh fauna that fanned out like a blanket of sleeping life.

Wetted fronds slicked, crackling and shrill, underfoot. Her burden lolled and dragged, bobbed and tugged behind her.

One step slightly off, her footing slipped, one hand flashing out to balance herself and prevent a worsening fall. "Asshole!" she grunted as she righted herself, struggling to keep a hold of the canvas.

Her calves ached. Her fingers were being rubbed raw as the course fabric chaffed her flesh. She bit back a hiss, determined to put aside such petty sentiments of ache and soreness. Her heart beat out a terse rhythm that pulsed in her footsteps.

The ground leveled out as it met the stream. Shallow yet teaming with life even in the night. Moonlight glinted off its subdued ripples casting dancing light to the underside of leaves and branches above.

Alongside the stream she trudged on, boots slicking and sucking into the mud and silt, weighing down each step and soaking into the canvas sack’s taut skin. She tugged and pulled, working against the weight behind her, forcing it forward when it wanted to stay back. She grunted out stubbornly as she tugged it over a buried trunk, curling herself inward to hoist it over. Then huffed out with irritation as it ground into the swill of mud and rankled earth on the other side.

Sweat dripped from her forehead and nose down to her collar and sleeves, leaving a chill as her wetted flesh was touched by the cold of the stream air.

Just a little further.

In the distance, between the piercing light of the moon and glittering shine of the stream, she could make out swirl of the pool. Gouged out of rock deep under by the unrelenting current that cut deceptively just below the water’s surface, it was perfect.

Curving her shoulders forward, gripping tighter to the sack’s gathers, she pressed forward.

Left then right. Step after step.

Finally. She was there.

“Pool side without a life guard,” she said out loud, a one way conversation; person to filled, worn canvas bag. Then she laughed in silence as the thought of the many times he had wanted exactly that.

Not anymore.

She dropped the damp, tied end to the ground. With a few steps into the murky bog she strayed just beyond the tree line to fetch the cinders and rope that she had brought in before.

Kneeling at the mouth of the filled sack, scraping away clots of mud and dirt with fingers and nails. With her sore hands she wrapped the rope tightly around and around the neck. She anchored one hand under the bundle, straining, she hoisted it up just enough to slip the length of rope under, and then around the bulk, threading it through the cinders as she went. Around, hoist, under, knot, around, hoist, under, knot.

With her skillful fingers she netted the bundle in a cocoon of rope, work so neatly done it was almost sinful to put under. There he was, trussed up like a cut of fine meat.

She dipped her hands into the icy pool’s waters to cool the now raw pads of her palms and fingers, flicking the droplets off into the darkened swirls. The water gurgled and boiled as if knowing, hungry, for the tightly bound bundle that lay just out of it’s reach.

She stood then and went to the far side the bag, knelt down into the marshy soil. Wetness soaked into her pant legs; hem and knee. Placing her hands at the round of the parcel’s fatted side, she shoved.

At first, nothing.

Another shove, more strength and determination behind this one. He gave a few inches, moving just a little as his bulk dug into the mud.

She shifted and sat back, groaning as wetness soaked through her pant bottom. Anchoring back onto her hands she planted her heels on the bundle and shoved again. He bulked and lolled, but with firm pressure soon he gave way. A tip forward, the cinders catching in the pull of gravity, and with one last tip and roll his bound, silenced wrapped form splashed in.

The water gurgled, boiled, and rippled as it gave way and soaked into the canvas, saturating the muddied rope. A film of oil and scum leeched off onto the water’s surface.

She crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the pool and watched as he was slowly pulled under, downward to the bottom of the pool.

The last of his tidy bundle disappearing below the surface with a bubbly show as the remnants of air were slowly leeched out from its confines, breaking the surface.

Flesh to water. Water to flesh.

She watched as the last of the oily film clung to fronds that were dipping into the crisp waters, and was slowly washed away.

Purified.

She tipped her head back and breathed in deep; the crisp frigid air that smelled of fragrant earth and foliage. Night’s pleasant scent that few people knew. It was untainted here, far away from the hunters and the cityscape. Much too deep and unsafe for most to venture. But not for her.