Gwen wants to see the beauty in the moment of death. For that, people have to die.
It was an experiment, that was all. Kill one person to see how it felt. See if it filled the void within her. The hollow. It didn't. Nor did it the next time. Or the next.
Gwen is an ordinary person. Wife to Amanda. Mother to Grace and Alexandra. Suddenly, she is no longer ordinary as she finds herself battling her urges and demons before she hurts those closest to her.
But is it already too late?
Gwen wants to see the beauty in the moment of death. For that, people have to die.
It was an experiment, that was all. Kill one person to see how it felt. See if it filled the void within her. The hollow. It didn't. Nor did it the next time. Or the next.
Gwen is an ordinary person. Wife to Amanda. Mother to Grace and Alexandra. Suddenly, she is no longer ordinary as she finds herself battling her urges and demons before she hurts those closest to her.
But is it already too late?
The knife sliced the night with a butter, and flesh, melting fire.
It didn't feel like I'd imagined. Or sound. I wanted more. Something tangible. A sensual trophy.
Maybe next time.
I walked away feeling what I can only describe as dejected. No, that's not quite right. Not just dejected. Disappointed. A little bored, maybe.
Why do we do things? Because we must? Because we can? Because, if you ask any teenager, 'I don't know?' Or, just because? I crossed the road because, unlike the hedgehog who wanted to see his flat mate, I needed to. I ate the milk chocolate Hob-Nob biscuit because I wanted to. I killed her just because.
No, there's always a reason, isn't there? 'Just because' doesn't cut it. It's a cop out. Maybe the reason is something elusive. Something you can't put into words, but it's still there. So, I slid the knife across her throat, because I wanted to know if I could. If I'd like it or if I'd be disgusted and horrified. I'd taken a life. I'd been covered in blood. She'd farted in fright just before she fell.
I expected her death to be graceful. She would slide to the floor as her soul hissed at me, drifting to the hereafter but wishing it could linger within its body to protect it from anything else I might inflict upon her. I hadn't planned on doing anything to the woman either before or after I killed her. I am not a rapist and nor am I a necrophiliac. I'm not deranged or a monster, just curious. Grace had abandoned her, though. She farted, gurgled and dropped.
She was pretty. Extremely so. I thought she deserved more than that. Not that beauty gave her the right to anything more than she had, but it just seemed fitting that she should have been more elegant in dying. So, I also felt cheated. Perhaps it was deliberate. She refused to give me what I wanted in defiance for me murdering her. In that case, maybe I deserved it.
Murder. I suppose that's what it was, though it didn't feel like it. it just felt as if I was trying something out. I was ticking something off a bucket list that I didn't realise I had. Northern Lights? Done. Valley of the Kings? Yup. Skydiving? Pretty much, though it was indoor because of a niggling, shitty little heart defect. Still, I can tick it off.
Murder? Sorted.
Except, it wasnât what I wanted. It was like the stencil of a tattoo, applied to the skin before the artist picks up their needles. It was waiting to be filled in. Waiting for the pain to make it real rather than a hint of what it could be.
So, perhaps next time I might be fulfilled.
I did quite like it. I canât say I enjoyed it because it left a gap in my expectations, but it wasnât an unpleasant experience. Unless you were the woman, of course. I doubt it was one of the best moments of her life. Although I did see her in a play recently at the local Theatre. It was meant to be a raunchy Roman comedy and was talky and political. The funniest thing was when the man in front of me, who was complaining loudly, accidentally spilled his red wine over his white jumper. She wasnât particularly good, so I suppose you could say she died in that.
So at least this time it was less painful. For her, anyway.
It was coincidence that Iâd already met her. Part of me wanted to check the cast list of the play to find out who she was, but then Iâd know her. Then thereâd be a connection. I didnât want that. Her name didnât matter. She was serving a purpose. It wasnât her fault that it didnât quite work out. She could hardly come back to life to let me kill her again, and again and again, to get it right. Perhaps it was the fact that Iâd recognised her that reduced the effect.
I wasnât sorry. Why should I be? She was a bad actress in a cheap play. She lived above a massage parlour that was, in reality, a brothel. She had better â and more - teeth than any of the âladiesâ that frequented the shady establishment, and she should have worked harder to achieve her potential. I was saving her and she repaid me by diminishing her death. She fell. She broke wind.
No, she couldn't help it.
I walked away, trying to put my disappointment to one side and telling myself that she wasnât to blame. Things just happen. Just because.
But, maybe she was saving that fart for me.
I threw the knife away, into the river sheâd been walking over. I wasnât exactly disposing of evidence, it had simply served its purpose, much like her. I didnât need it anymore. For the next one, Iâd use something else. Iâd seen enough episodes of Criminal Minds and other such shows to know you can murder someone with practically anything.
If I was planning on killing again, which it seemed clear I was, I supposed that made me some sort of serial killer. I wasnât sure how I felt about that. There was a distinct flavour of trepidation, but it was tinged with the taste of excitement. I wanted to play it down and just treat it as an experiment, one that needed trying again. But it was thrilling!
But, remain calm. I had to remain calm. If I didnât, Iâd be caught.
On almost all the police shows and films, the killer had an M.O. A Modus Operandi that tied them to each crime scene. Theyâd always sew the eyes shut because their parents made them watch while having sex. Theyâd sit them at the dinner table because family was everything and they were brought up with nothing. It was a pattern. A badge. A great neon sign hanging, Damocles-like, over their head. Here I am! This is me!
And, so, they were caught. Hunted down and shot or locked up for the rest of their lives.
Why do that? Why embed a clue into your work? Unless you wanted to be caught, I supposed. Some did. Some enjoyed the chase and the knowledge that theyâre outwitting all those smart, donut loving police officers, until theyâre not and theyâre caught. Some wanted to be caught because then the world knew who they are and could celebrate, in the form of notoriety and media coverage, what theyâve done.
I didnât want that. I didnât want to be caught and I didnât want my face and name to be splashed over the news and Facebook or have memes made from photos of my incarceration. I wasnât a glory hound. I didnât seek out infamy.
Would that give me an advantage? There would be nothing ritualistic or repetitive about the deaths I caused, apart from the deaths I caused.
Oh, I was getting ahead of myself. I was using the plural. Deaths. I knew thereâd be another one, but that might be the One. That might give me everything I needed. It could be graceful and meaningful and sad and poignant. And I could stop right there and go on with my job and family and life, with the little hole within me filled in.
The hole would become whole.
A family woman surrenders to her darkest thoughts with an experiment gone wrong.
Gwen wants to see firsthand the beauty of death in the exact moment a person breathes their last breath, and for that, people must die.
After a young woman tragically dies at the tainted hands of Gwen, there is no going back. Gwen canât hush the screams of the void inside her; it needs to be filled, but one innocent life doesnât seem to be enough.
Gwen finds herself struggling with her demons. A difficult challenge that could determine life or death for those closest to her.
This was a stress-inducing journey from page one. The plot was intriguing. However, the main characterâs thought process and actions were difficult to understand. Gwen was having a disturbing battle with her mind, convincing herself she was a good person rather than a cold-blooded killer. In her mind, she was targeting those who âdeservedâ to be killed. However, she also had zero hesitation in taking innocent lives with no rhyme or reason. During some of those instances, her thoughts didnât align with her reasons and actions, making it challenging to make sense of it all. She was incredibly careless, which added to the stress of her journey, but the lack of immediate consequences was hard to believe considering her actions now and her later approach. Some elements within the storyline were challenging to understand, which raised some confusion.Â
With that being said, this was a page-turner from the start. Whether you were hoping for Gwenâs downfall or looking forward to learning the conclusion of her âexperiment,â this storyline was nothing short of thrilling. There were also some parts where Gwenâs inner thoughts were strong; the way they were written helped paint a vivid picture for the reader and helped her understand what she was feeling in some of the situations. The story had its ups and downs but was attention-grabbing as the storyline progressed, especially near the end. Gwenâs spiral into deep paranoia pulls the reader in along with her. The ending was excellent; the author pulled it all together with a strong ending. It was dark, twisted, and shocking. There is something about a psychological horror/thriller that, when done right, can keep you thinking well after youâve read the story, and this story has that perfect ending.Â
Overall, this was a good, fast-paced psychological horror. If you are squeamish, this might not be the story for you, but if you enjoy the dark and twisted nature of oneâs mind, add this to your to-be-read list.