Blonde Hair and Nicotine

By Elizabeth Board

The thing he loved about her was the way she would flick lit cigarettes at people. He loved her from a distance because the cigarettes went to those who tried to get close. This would explain why he loved her because from a distance anything can look beautiful but cigarettes and sex can do things to a person that liposuction and plastic surgery are meant to reverse. And when he did get up the courage to walk up to her and speak to her (without getting flicked with burning ash) he saw that she wasn't as beautiful and blemish free as he had thought. And that my reader is why he killed her.

He was hoping that in some strange morbid way death would make her beautiful like he had imagined. But the electrical wire pulled tight around her throat didn't make her more beautiful but her struggle was stunning. Her struggle turned her into a supermodel. It made the cellulite in her thighs disappear and the fine lines around her lips fade. The grey in her hair faded to blonde in her struggle the cancer in her lungs went away for one moment the frailty of her life turned her into the most beautiful girl in the world. Thirty-five and well past her prime. She had past the point that she could make something of her life but still all the men found her beautiful because they were after all, men. But that's not why he loved her. Or at least I like to think he was a little bit deeper than just wanting some cunt that he could fuck and leave behind like trash. But then again everyone wants a serial killer to be much more than he actually is. The interesting thing about evil is that it has a face. That's what people never seem to expect. They want evil to be something so different from themselves that they can blame some strange force and not their own society. I guess he was evil but I'll never know. No one will ever know because the state decided to end it all with a cocktail of chemicals to kill what could have been genius or pure evil. Oh well that's all of little consequence after all the man is dead. He died. The important thing is his life. Or that is at least the interesting part. His death is a bunch of melodramatic bullshit that would make a good scene in a movie about Charles Manson if in fact capital punishment (as they call murder so that they can sleep at night) wasn't revoked from that state at that time. Yes, I just related this overly dramatic pompous ass to ol' Charlie.

See that's the thing about serial killers they think they are worth more to the world than they will ever actually be. This kid I know actually reminds me of a serial killer thinking he is more important to the world than he actually will ever be. Oh well that kid like Andy's death is inconsequential. Yes, that was his name. Andy Orwell. Anderson actually but who wants to call someone Anderson when they can call him Andy a thoroughly degrading name that conjures up images of a pimply red haired Blockbuster clerk who lacks any attractive qualities what so ever so he jacks off to his father's pin-up magazines in sheets reeking of his old cum. He doesn't even have the decency to get any real porn just his father's 70s pin-up girls. Pathetic, I know. Andy though (Anderson Andy not the permanent virgin that I described previously) he had that awkwardness somehow had a way with women. I think it was the assumed innocence. That he wasn't a threat. Now ladies, just because someone isn't James Bond doesn't mean he's not threatening. Andy had a way with words that even when he was saying nothing you still became roped in. Much like the boy I talked about earlier. I've met a lot of people like this. They spout of there hollow philosophies to anyone who will listen, trying to seem holier than thou when in reality they are just as sad and pathetic as the rest of us suffering in our own shit. Philosophies don't so jack for anyone I mean look at Socrates, he's dead. Andy wouldn't do me the favor of snuffing the life out of me. He was into blondes that smoked. I guess he had a thing for crimson lips moving as the lady (term used loosely of course) spoke through tobacco and tar smoke. Sometimes I'd watch these women that he preyed on and sometimes they looked more like dragons than sirens to me. I wasn't blonde then. I bleached my hair after he got his veins pumped full of poison. I guess it was to honor him. You can see my brunette roots. I'd have to say being blonde is better than brunette. The brunette had to go anyway. It reminded me too much of how I was before wearing thrift store clothes with stains from coffee that I had never tasted. I wonder if the cappuccino that had stained my old favorite sweater had tasted any good. Probably not. But again I'm talking of things that are of no consequence so should I just get back to the blonde that flicked live cigarettes? I think I should. Her name was Catherine O'Hare, rich and snobby but not into guys in seven hundred dollar suits. I think her soul purpose in life was to leave a hole burnt in some guys Gucci suit. Not that those guys even knew what Gucci was. They just bought the suits because it was suggested subtly by their big titted secretaries.