Chapter Three

You feel the bathtub with water. If only this were a bath of blood. You grab a pocket knife from the kitchen. Making a small cut in your hand, you lick the blood. Just imagine how good that girl's blood would taste.

You lay in the bath. The water warms your body. You close your eyes. relaxing from the long workday. You hear a loud car pulling into the neighbor's driveway. You realize it's Angelica getting home from work.

You close your eyes and picture her face. Such a precious angel, and even angels, must die. Could I get away with murder? Would I even care if I got caught? The thought of jail doesn't scare me, and I have nothing to lose. You get out of the bath. Walking towards the door, you grab your robe. George is coming for you. You sing out loud with a laugh.

You rush upstairs to get dressed. You threw on a pair of bright red silky pajamas.

The thoughts dance in your mind. All the blood and screams. Her cries for help. Grabbing the handle to the bedroom, you push open the door.

In moments, you were standing in the front yard. You can hear the crickets chirping, and the wind blows through your wet hair. You grip the pocket knife tightly in your hand. You lick your lips. You walk up to her house with no particular plan in mind.

You hear her loud music and sweet voice. You approached her door and knocked on it. You wait for several moments, and she doesn't come. Clever girl.

Walking back towards the house, you feel disappointed. You see a cat walking by. Such a sweet little kitty, you think, stabbing him in its back. The cat cries in pain. The sound excites you. You take the cat's blood and rub it all over your face.

You watch the cat flap helplessly on the grass. "You poor cat did mean George did this to you," you chuckle. "I know exactly what I'll do with you," you laughed all the way home.

You go into the house with blood dripping all over the yard. Killing this cat was exciting, but killing Angelica would be even more thrilling. You plop the now-dead cat onto the living room floor.

Now moving over towards the closet, you take down a box. You place the cat inside the box. Your feet move towards the kitchen. You grab a pin, stamp, and tape from the kitchen junk drawer.

You taped up the box, chuckling to yourself, you could hardly stand. You write down a local animal shelter's address. Just imagine that fat Sheriff when she opens the box and sees a dead cat. She will go bonkers.

Regardless of how exciting the scene may be, you grab the nearby mop and begin cleaning up the blood. You understood that you have to be careful cleaning up the evidence if you would get away with many murders.

This cat was merely a warm-up. There are so many horrible deeds that you had cooking up in your head.