But there’s never a story of how the deer lived its life before entering the path of the hunter’s bullet, right?
In a sense, consumers of news and serial killers are alike. We stand by as outsiders mesmerised by the murder but give little time to examine the victim’s life. Our gazes have no time for that.
Lines like: “She leaves behind a daughter”; or; “He was about to graduate as a surgeon”, tug at the heartstrings but, often, this feeling passes and we return to the killer and the details of the killing. We want to know more about the hunt and the hunter. Unless you’re directly connected to the victim, the hunted ranks last on our list.
For serial killers, the victims are just a means to an end. The trophy they steal from the victim’s body becomes the symbol of a successful kill. Killers have a deep connection to their trophies. It’s so intimate and delicate that it’s like no other. Think of it as a secret love affair. It’s a precious thing. Telling anyone would ruin their love together.
My story is a little different. I put my trophies in a place where people can see them. I like knowing that the evidence of my indiscretions is within reach of the most important people in my life. From my perspective, it’s a game that I win daily. I’m not sure why I do it but I guess it has something to do with the abuse I suffered. My adult mind sorted things out in ways that calmed the inner torment. Age has tempered my rage. Displaying the most intimate part of my private life in such a prominent position of my home shows maturity. I like exposing myself to the sunlight. It is as though I have no secrets to hide.
I’m sure Freud would say I had some repressed sexual feelings towards my mother or something.
God, I hope not.
You’re probably wondering what is my type of trophy. Is it tongues, ears, or perhaps the labia?
I suppose I could use those too but blood objects aren’t my thing. I never even planned the first kill anyway — I kind of made it up as it happened. God, I was so nervous when it happened but so elated too. The whole thing was wild and intense. It was just like having that first kiss when I was…
Sorry, I digressed.
Spontaneity. That’s what made me take a trophy. I didn’t even think about it. I was more worried about being caught. I knew they could track me through the victim’s phone, so I snatched it from the ground and smashed it into little pieces. The little SIM popped out. It was just sitting on top of the debris. It called to me. I had to have it. I stuck it into my pocket and promptly forgot about it while I busily dropped remnants of her phone in several places on the way home. I found the SIM in my pocket a day later. I put it into my sock drawer — and that was the beginning. I’ve kept one for every victim since.
SIM cards. That’s my trophy. They’re small and represent my kills. They also have a tiny amount of gold inside them, did you know that? Anyway, I had five of them before the summer ended. For a while, they lived in their plastic bag, underneath my socks. My wife found them and wondered how they got to be there. I said I’d been collecting them for their gold. She wanted to know where I got them from and my answer was easy. Some were from old phones I owned and the rest were found on the ground at various times. I told her I was going to recycle them and turn them into charms for her teddy bear’s bracelet. She thought that was a great idea, thanked me and gave me a peck on the cheek.
With a smile, she said, “And here’s a kiss from Teddy too. I know he’ll love the seahorse. See? He’s already smiling.”
That bear gets more respect and attention than I do. So do all the other stuffed animals on our bed. It’s like she never grew up. We’ve been married for almost ten years and I’ve still got to remove them from our bed each night before I sleep. And I have to lower them to the floor gently. If I drop them she’ll flip out and call me an abuser.
“They’re not real,” I’d say to her.
“They’re real to me. So don’t drop them.” She won’t talk to me for days if I hurt one of her toys. There’s no crossing Sam or those childhood friends of hers.
To keep the peace, I now place her toys in the corner of the room just as softly as I can, like I’m tucking the babies into bed. Teddy is their smirking gang leader. He gets to wear the charms I made from the victim’s SIM cards. Whenever I make love to my wife, I look to the side of the bed and watch that fucker’s stupid face smirking back at me. It enrages me to see him living in comfort while I’m made to service his mistress. It’s as if I’m the toy and he’s the master.
And then I look down at those little charms on his fluffy wrist. “I got you, mate. If only you knew how you got those charms.”
I guess you could say Teddy is not just a symbol of Sam’s childhood, he’s a symbol of my desire and fury. He’s my muse and nemesis. I despise him but I need to look at his bracelet of trophies to finish off. Sam and Teddy get what they want but I get something I desperately need.
The rest is inside this book
Why Do Some Killers Keep Trophies?