Short Story: Bloody Redhead

It wasn’t the blood on his hand that frightened me the most, it was the strands of long red hair stuck to the blood that seemed to float endlessly in the wind. Pasted by dried blood to his wrist was the very piece of her scalp these strands were attached to. I doubt if he even realized they were there or maybe he didn’t even care. The guy was such a psycho that maybe he enjoyed wearing a bracelet from the scalp of an almost dead woman.

Every few minutes the creep would look to see if I had moved. His neck would crack every time he turned his bulbous head around to check. He was a self-made monster, wearing the earrings from his kills. Each pierced hole in his skin was laced with both his own blood and the blood of the woman. If you looked real close you could see that he didn’t just put the earring through a professional hole. Oh no, not this psycho. I watched him do it to the redhead. After gagging her, he pulled the earrings down through her earlobe. She was lucky on her right ear because the back of the stud popped right out and slid into his finger. With her left ear, however, her muffled scream and flailing legs screamed her pain while he yanked that sucker down and ripped part of her lobe. He then turned to me and smiled an almost toothless grin while he stabbed the post through his skin and connected it with the back of the earring on the other side. He placed this green gem under what looked like a ¼ carat diamond that was jutted from his right nipple.

The redhead stared at me with tears streaming down her face. Her cheekbones were decorated in gray from the smudge of wet mascara. The black makeup flowed down to her chin and fell onto her lap. She cried to me with those eyes yet I could do nothing to help her. I was shamed as I caught myself wondering if red was her true color because her hair was almost a purple red with no hint of orange. It didn’t matter anymore though, she’d be dead soon and I was probably next on his list.

The monster hummed a tune similar to a Garth Brooks song I once knew and slapped his knee whenever he’d hum the chorus. While I watched him slap down, I noticed that his hands were misshapen. His fingers were crooked from what looked like broken bones or arthritis. I couldn’t tell which, but by the way he moved with such grotesque grace I can bet it wasn’t the latter. His nails were perfectly manicured and only stained by the amount of blood taken from the redhead and his own pierced skin. I felt the bile rise in my stomach knowing that my blood would soon be mixed in with the stain and the only way anyone would know was by a DNA test that would never happen.

I looked at him again and winced while he removed the scalp from the redhead. Her eyes no longer held the pain from before. They were dull and lifeless, void of any emotion yet I could tell by the faint rise and fall of her chest that she was still alive.

He placed the hair on his head and danced around like a woman on stage. He performed a hideous curtsey and filled my ears with the most hideous laughter. I suppose he wanted to laugh like a woman, but I highly doubt he believed he sounded like one.

The redhead finally stopped breathing and left the hideous beast for probably a better place. I’m sure hell would be even better than this dungeon of madness. He left her there days ago and now the stench of urine and death was filling my nostrils as I watched her corpse change slowly from white to black. I suppose he’ll be back for me in a few days. Maybe God will show me mercy and kill me from hunger or thirst by then. I can only hope. Except…

I hear footsteps.