Dead Girl

by Heath Louis Goetsch


He had been standing outside the window, getting colder as the snow fell around him, watching her for hours. She was such a caregiver, he thought. The way she had been taking care of her infant child. The way she smiled at the things her child did; things that he felt irritated by. The way it cried for no reason, the way it shit in its’ own pants, the way it couldn’t seem to do anything for itself; it was so fucking pitiful, he thought.


He had come here to rape and kill the new mother, but the longer he watched her the more he wanted to throw that child out into the accumulated snow. The snow had been here for weeks, and he had been watching her nearly every night since. He knew her so well, though not at all. He didn’t know what her name was, but he knew her favorite magazine was Vogue and her bra size was 36D; and he knew that she looked nothing like those girls she read about and he wanted to fuck this trashy low-life wannabe beauty queen. She deserved it, he had convinced himself. She had earned it.


Now, the child lay there still, probably sleeping. Then the stranger salivates, and the harsh weather makes him feel sick as he does. “You’re so fucking disgusting,” he tells himself. “Go on, just fucking kill her.” She isn’t married, but she has a child. In his eyes, she’s a whore; and, in his mind, he’s giving a whore what a whore wants.


She couldn’t be much older than twenty-five, however he was a terrible judge of age. The last girl he strangled, fucked, and beheaded turned out to be seventeen. Oh, what a mess that was. It seems like once a girl hits drinking age, sympathy for her demise cuts in half. As a general rule, he stays with the twenty-one and older crowd. There is less chance of a family’s vendetta ruining his good times, or media exposure drawing too much attention to his dark hobby.


She wasn’t the prettiest girl, but this was in his favor. From her reclusive lifestyle, and lack of any family or friends ever stopping in to see her, he had figured he would have days before anyone would look for her or notice her missing. She didn’t have a job; this is always a plus. Women with jobs have a way of being noticed missing the very next day, the stranger knew this from experience. He needed time to change two time zones before the body was discovered, a rule he had set forward about five college seniors ago. He didn’t usually involve children, and, to the best of his knowledge, he had never killed a mother. Then again, he may have. There was no sure way to know.


He had found her by chance. Driving along Frontage Road 65 North, he spotted this young woman from the road. When he first looked upon her, she was sleeping with the lights on and the curtains open. Presumably, she had just gotten too worn out, and the child sleeping in her arms suggested why. He would help her rest tonight. That’s what I’m doing, he thought, I’m helping that slut.

His heart was racing. He always loved this feeling. Nothing came close to the high he felt, as he took one last deep breath, just before he ravaged some unsuspecting young woman. Nothing came close, he thought, as he approached the door.


He was so cold. He looked forward to warming his hands on her heavy breasts and shapely thighs. She would be frightened, and his cold hands would make him even more of a monster in her mind. “Like a cold-blooded killer,” he whispered under foggy breath; just before he grabbed the door handle, twisted firmly, and then shoved his shoulder forcefully against the door. The warm air from her room travelled straight to his face, as the door flew open, and it welcomed him. She wouldn’t have time to scream. He threw the door closed, rushed the bed on which she sit, and pushed his hand hard against her paling face. He delivered fist after fist right to her cheek to weaken her mouth, and silence her further. When she could barely speak, he began caressing her body; soon it would be detached from her head.


The baby started crying. He tore the sheets from the bed and smothered the child, without hesitation, with the same sheets on which it had peacefully slumbered. Remorselessly, he resumed kissing and biting the woman he had come for. She was so badly beaten that she could hardly resist. She was his victim, by now. “Hello, number twenty-eight. Do you like to fuck?” She shook her head, not saying a word. Her eyes had gotten so wide that he felt he was watching her die already, as he continued to humiliate her with harsh words and his unwelcomed touch. He had a sense that she believed he was only there to hurt her body- that there would be an end. There’s more, he thought, there’s much, much more.