One thing you don't know about me is that I'm an artist. Each time I kill, I take a little souvenir, like a lock of hair, a set of earrings, or a pair of panties, and if I'm feeling extreme I take some flesh. Like the lips of a beauty queen, I stalked. She had the plumpest, most succulent lips I've ever had the pleasure of kissing, and I had to have them. I needed to add them to my canvas of memorabilia mixed in swirls of oil paint. 

Besides, she wasn't going to need them after death, and keeping her beauty pageant crown would have been too risky, but her lips? If the cops ever find my treasure trove, my collage of trinkets, they'll never figure out who the lips belong to.

Which brings me to you, Mara. 

What I want from you isn't a tangible keepsake. I can't bottle your laughter, which is a shame because your giggles turn me rock hard.

Your screams do, too.

I still dream of the shrill you released when I attacked you. Too bad I can't spray it on me like cologne and walk around in your fear.

You're so beautiful when you're scared. 

However, it's still too soon for a second attempt at snatching you, but I need to chase that high again, which is why I'm using pig blood to write across your windshield. You still can't make up your mind between young and old, and it's wearing my patience quite thin. Seriously, Mara, how hard is it to choose between a man who needs Viagra to get it up and a guy who needs zero assistance to pleasure you?

It's because you're a little slut.

So, that's precisely what I'm writing across your windshield, for everyone to see what you are. The glorious part about living in a big city is that people mind their business, which means I get to do this at sunset with no one giving a shit. 

But you will, Mara.

You will give a shit.

And it will terrify you.

The adrenaline is pumping as I give the final stroke to the word slut. Grinning from ear to ear, I ram my elbow into the passenger-side window, and it shatters gorgeously. Then I carefully place the little doll I fashioned to look like you on the seat where shards of glass are sprinkled like sharp confetti. I bet you look as innocent as this doll when you wear a tutu, and pointe shoes.

But you're far from innocent.

Your a dirty little whore like the rest of the girls whose lives I took.

Whores. All of them.

And yet... I've toyed with you the longest. I can't explain why I'm the cat and you're the ball of yarn, but I just know it's because you're different. From the moment you turned and looked me in the eyes at Penthouse, it stirred something loose in me that almost feels like... kindness. 

I want to strangle and caress you all at once. 

I want to make you scream in fear and arousal.

I'm not like this with other women, Mara, which is why it enrages me that you're such a little slut. You're just like all the other girls in that regard. You could be so much more but instead, you cheapen yourself by dancing in tiny shorts with your tits on display in that corset tank top with Penthouse across the breasts in crystals. 

It's why I have no choice but to add you to my collection because women like you don't deserve men like me. 

You're a cancer in our lives and to our egos, but soon you won't be any longer, and I cannot wait to get off on the fear you'll experience when you see what I've done to your car. 

I'll be right there, watching, and you won't even know it.