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He kept his apartment impeccably clean. Everything had its own place, its precise location. He separated each can of Campbell's chicken soup and beef barley by plastic dividers, then lined them up one behind the next. Every week, it was the same routine. He would spend hours organizing the cupboard after returning from food shopping. He strived for organization, for perfection.
Everything in his life had a purpose, a reason that he could control. He hated imperfection, challenged it with authority and knowledge. That's exactly what sat across the room squirming, sobbing.
He focused on the artistic, creative craft on his desk, not glancing up a moment to acknowledge her presence. His latest victim had come as a complete surprise to him. She was not the intended target. She was practice.
The killer stared at the photographs lined up one after the next, exactly 11 1/2 inches wide and 22 1/2 inches long. He measured it again.
Five were still missing. Five more souvenirs to show the one he loved just how unique she was, the perfection she possessed. A goddess created for his destiny. He smiled at the thought of her, knowing he would not have to mold her to his liking. She dominated his every dream, every fantasy that he wanted to make realty. Some day, he would do just that.
He could see her whenever he wanted to. He could watch her, smell her. It drove him crazy with want, but everything had to be just right. He couldn't make any mistakes. He had a plan to spend eternity with her. "Stay calm," he whispered, counting the seconds he held his breath before he released it.
He looked at her picture--long beautiful hair, a perfect body, so delicate,so much in need. Closing his eyes a moment, envisioning her in his apartment, he inhaled deeply from his core. His senses stood at attention as her scent consumed him. He reached out to her, was about to touch her, but she wasn't there, he couldn't feel her. Disappointment replaced desire, and it was too much to handle. He bowed his head in silence, deep in thought about his immense desire.
He heard the moaning, a sob, a punishable interruption. He rapidly rose to his feet. The chair he sat on went flying a few feet backwards. He never reacted to the sound. Instead, he sprinted across the room. In a flash, the blood scattered in many directions, most of it landing on the wall. She died the instant the knife slit her throat. No more sobs. How dare she interrupt his moment of fantasy?
He wiped the knife on her clothing, left to right, two swipes. He slowly stood up, looked back across the room where his desk sat, shocked by the ability to move so swiftly in an instant. The sight of the chair on the floor angered him. He reacted, filled with fury, kicking the lifeless body in the ribs.
He sat back down at his art desk, only minutes later as if nothing had happened. Her life, everything it represented, was meaningless.
He lifted the picture up, glided his finger across it, never even flinching at the paper cut it made. He stared deeply into the intense dark green shade of her eyes.
"'My Lillian, my beautiful, precious Lillian.'"