In the calm of morning silence, between the chirps of birds and the chatter of squirrels, the leftover wind from a late-night storm swirled over her body in cool waves. Were there blood moving through those veins and into the heart of the girl, a girl too kind for this world, she would feel the chill in the wind. But she did not feel anything – not the breeze as it swarmed the leaves of trees, not the first notes of snow as winter grew around her, not the flush of warm blood below the skin.
Zala was dead.
People around town would talk – once she was found, of course – and wonder who could do such an awful thing to someone with so much life left to live. And in our town, no less. Couldn’t they have taken their nasty deed elsewhere? Maybe south along the Ohio river, maybe Cartersville. People here don’t do things like that; people here are good.
No matter how much talk would seep through the town with the coming cold front, no matter how many lies would begin to grow surrounding Zala’s extracurricular activities, the townies would all come to understand that rabid evil refuses to hide. Real ugly evil, the kind they were facing – and would continue to face for some time – would not be swept under the rug. It would not go gentle into that good night, not even if they stretched the truth about the poor black exchange girl dumped in the woods.
Did you hear what else she was really like? Real shame, but you know, she always was more of a Cartersville type-a girl, never really fit in around here. Almost deserved it, in a way.
In the end, Zala was just a victim, plain and simple. She wasn’t partaking in the powders, pills, and weed consumed throughout the town. Certainly not selling her body for money (a particularly rotten rumor started by Chet Rollins down at the Piggly Wiggly). Zala was, in fact, a better member of the community than most. If you asked her manager – the same Chet Rollins that told Connie Parker he swore he’d seen her leave the last Bluejays game drunk as a skunk tailing a group of men – he would have called her a great girl, always with a smile, that bagged groceries faster than a jackrabbit in a thunderstorm. That was, until she died, and Chet, jealous he never got to put the moves on the young bagger girl, changed his tune.
It was in that peace between newborn snowflakes that the killer took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and let the adrenaline flood his brain as he exhaled. Blood dripped down the blade of the axe at his side. He liked the way his hands still shook. It felt good – felt real. He, like everyone else in this town, had already wasted too many years living a life full of fake feelings, lives as shallow and cold as the dead girl at his feet. But this, this wasn’t fake. He could do without her glassy stare though, that was too real. That made him feel guilty.
But if this was what he had to do to feel alive, then by God he’d do it again.
He wanted to do it again.
He needed to.