The Collection
He wished she could have stayed longer. He had actually enjoyed her singing.
She went to Cornell. Or was it Carnegie Melon? For…what was it? Oh, it didn’t matter, it never mattered much to him. Those college broads were all the same. They just needed a good fucking. But this one. This one was different, he had to admit. A novel find.
He was buying cashmere socks at Bloomingdales (He could only wear cashmere socks; the cotton ones gave him a rash) when he discovered her. She was at the make-up counter wearing a putrid yellow sweater. He hated the color yellow because it made him think of the slushy yellow piss that slopped into the sewers during New York winters. She never wore the yellow sweater again. He examined her for the next two weeks. Always careful to avoid her eyes. She wasn’t beautiful by any means. She had pock-marked skin. And he thought she had once had embarrassing acne. That was why she worked at the make-up counter. She had large green eyes and copper hair. He thought they should be gray or blue. Green eyes were too commonplace. He had to admit, he did admire her hands. They were long and bony with fat knuckles. Like a practiced piano player. Graceful, nimble, breakable.
He always had a way with women. They were lucky he took an interest in them. He didn’t really intend or prepare for her like he did the others. Of course, he knew eventually she would be his. The voices told him she would please him. During the holidays he wanted to purchase a cashmere scarf so he took the taxi to Bloomingdales. Before looking at the scarves, he rounded the corner of her make-up booth. She was especially lonely that day. She missed Ireland, and was thinking she felt like a micro cog in a microcosm. He did not know this, but he knew she looked vulnerable. She was fingering the eye shadows, painting a palate on her hand, but frowning like the right hues just didn’t exist. It was hunting time.
He bought a gray cashmere scarf and waited patiently as the buxom old cashier painstakingly folded the item till it was the size of a post card. Then she wrapped it in tissue paper and placed it in a white bag with a silver ribbon. In his peripheral vision, he saw her greeting her replacement. As she exited through the revolving doors, he exited just one turning door behind her. “Oh, excuse me, Miss! Miss!” He held up his Bloomingdale’s bag. “May I ask you a question? What is your return policy on items?” He knew she’d bite. She came just close enough for him to take out his handkerchief soaked in chloroform.
Even though she turned out to be slightly different than the others, she still needed a good fucking. They always did, even though they pretended to be offended. He never understood why they always put up such as fuss. Those plain Jane, mousy-haired bitches, smarter than him. They never get laid. They would cry, scream, bitch, moan. But this bony fingered young woman waited quietly until he was done with her. He grunted and decided he was hungry enough to begin cooking. He grabbed his filet knife and the blue bucket. She began to get hysterical and this irritated him. The voices told him she was making too much noise. Hurry and get rid of her.
Sitting on top of the blue bucket, he sharpened his knife, the predator preparing for the meal. He liked the thought. He could barely think through her hysterics. What the fuck was her problem? Couldn’t she tell he was trying to concentrate? He put the knife to her throat and warned her nicely that if she valued her vocal cords, she ought to stop using them. She didn’t make any more noise and let him finish sharpening his knife in peace.
He went upstairs to boil some water, and when he returned, she looked, different. Composed.
She asked him questions about his family. He became visibly bothered by these questions; it was, of course, no business of hers. She apologized and began to talk about her family. How proud they were that she was attending college, how beautiful her sister’s baby was, and how she missed the mossy green hills of Ireland. He told her not to think about these things because they didn’t matter anyway. She turned her face away from him. This did not bother him. As she sobbed she sang:
How sweet is life but we're crying
How mellow the wine but we're dry
How fragrant the rose but it's dying
How gentle the wind but it sighs
What good is in youth when it's aging
What joy is in eyes that can't see
When there's sorrow in sunshine and flowers
And still only our rivers run free
He let her finish her song and then he cut her throat. He didn’t want to; he wanted to hear her sing again. But the voices told him he needed to hurry up and get rid of her. He began to methodically strip her flesh and toss it in the bucket. Her skin was pale and had no freckles. This aroused him. He lapped the blood that trickled and pooled into her bellybutton but was interrupted when the boiling pot began to hiss.
“All great things are only a number of small things that have been carefully collected together.”