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All he can hear is lipstick smeared lips whispering to him. The word help is like a cry of a need that only he can fulfill. She tries to run. “What do you think you’re doing?” He says slapping her face hard. Stunned she stills. He hits her again. “Look what you made me do!” He yells. “Now look at you, ruined!” She lies on the uneven ground. Her chest rises and falls in hurried rhythm. Grabbing her by her hands he yanks her upwards. A knife gleams in his free hand. All she can do is watch. The knife gleams. Her world goes black. He lifts the shovel for the second time that night. Cleaning up is a ritual more than artistic prowess. The shallow grave won’t be found for months, maybe even years. Then he hears it, the sound of footsteps on the un-pure ground behind him. “Don’t move,” the shaky voice says. It is more a whisper than a sound. He wonders if the cops have finally caught on to the dentist turned serial killer. He knows that he has been overly careful. The dentist turns against. Even in the arms of another he could not lose her entirely. No matter the distance, time, or other companionship, it was always her. Her words were soft. Nothing but a greeting, a wish for a happy birthday, and some kind words of comfort. The walls began to move in a little closer. It was a short walk to the computer, and when he got there, the long buried file he sought was still in the same place he’d left it months ago. Then suddenly, the years rolled back, and there she was. Her voice called out through his surround sound, from an almost forgotten day when chasing rainbows was all that mattered. Then, as always, there was the scene where on a crazy drunken night, when she rose like a Siren from the cool pool water, naked and beautiful. His hand reached down for the rising hardness between his legs, and as she rose out of the water, he stroked himself, remembering the way her body felt under his hands. It was amazing how well she had always fit him, had always known exactly how.
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