BONES Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  BONES

  First edition. November 6, 2016.

  Copyright © 2016 Yolanda Olson.

  ISBN: 978-1536511406

  Written by Yolanda Olson.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Bones

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  Lis Garcia, Linda Cotter, and Beth Sterry for keeping up with my meltdowns when I wrote this one! You gals are the best P.A.’s a girl could ask for!

  Word Wench Services for editing this one for me! Thank you for going through my disjointed mind and making it all look so pretty. And thanks for making it fun too. The best editor a girl could ever ask for!

  Lee Ching at Under Cover Designs for Letting me tell his story. I told you I would make it worthy of the amazing cover you created!

  Dedication

  Happy Birthday Big Sis. Here’s one just for you.

  Bones

  Prologue

  I was always fascinated by skulls. The way they look when the skin and muscle are peeled away; the solid, smooth feel of them when they're cleaned properly makes my body ache. I wouldn't say that I'm sexually aroused by the actual skulls, it's more the detachment from the human body, the taking off the multitude of layers that makes my cock hard. I don't have many yet, but I'm getting there. Slow and steady wins the race, and all that jazz.

  I'm not a serial killer.

  No matter how much everyone wants to believe it, no matter how many lies are printed about me, no matter what story you choose to believe. Serial killers have a compulsion they can't control, and I am very controlled. No, I like to think that I'm just a man with a different train of thought that enjoys the macabre things in life. I like seeing how things tick, and I am absolutely elated when I get to take them apart.

  As I set the skull into the cabinet that sits in my living room, I step back and smile. I have four so far, mostly women, but this is my first male skull, and it's a bit larger. That won't do. I retrace my steps and rearrange them, leaving the larger on a shelf by itself and setting the other three in equal separate spaces beneath it. It looks like the beginnings of a small pyramid; my own personal wonder of the world, and I can't help but feel proud of myself.

  I never started with animals; another thing to distinguish me from the serial killer cliché. My home is impeccable, and there are no traces of death to be found except for what's inside the now closed glass doors of this cabinet. I like to bring people here and show them my art, letting them believe that these are props that I've found online instead of beautiful moments of distraction that have kept me company for the past few years.

  I only ever needed what I've come to call a distraction four times now. The times I would act upon the urge was never the same allotment as the last. It was just when I felt it was needed. Pushing my pecan-brown, medium length hair away from where it's fallen into my eyes, I linger for just a moment longer before I walk into the kitchen and turn my coffee machine on.

  Although I know it's not good for me in the long run, it's how I start my day. I can't find it in myself to put energy drinks into my body, so I compromise and allow myself one cup of coffee a day. The sound of the steady drip as it pours from the small spout of the machine gives me a moment to close my eyes and think. It had been months since I had collected that skull, but I didn't have the urge to clean it until just the night before. When I went to bed, I set it on the side-table and stared at it, a secret smile on my face, until my body relaxed enough allowing me to sleep.

  That was something I wasn't every good at—sleeping. It wasn't what I did that would keep me awake at night, but rather it was what I couldn't do. I sometimes wished it would be easier for myself and everyone around me if I stayed inside of my home. I've even had thoughts of laying brick against the windows and the doorways to prevent me from getting out or from anyone else ever getting in.

  But there would be time for that later. For now, I had to fill my cabinet, and when that was done, I would spare anyone else the same fate of the imbeciles that had been tragically trusting enough to come home with me. Some I had spared for the most part, but those four—I needed them to stave the hunger inside of me. I was creating a beautiful sonata of the macabre for the safety of countless others, and when my cabinet was full, I would stop.

  It would be easy to stop, I imagined as the drip of coffee sputtered and died. I never put cream or sugar in it, I didn't want to add to the shit I was already putting into my body. I opened my eyes, grabbed the dark green mug, and put the bitter brew to my lips, sipping slowly as I walked back into the living room and sat down on my opulent leather couch staring back at the grinning skulls.

  Usually the urge doesn't hit me once I've cleaned one of my newer pieces, but as I've mentioned, this one isn't new. It's a few months old, and it's finally being displayed where it belongs. It's not my masterpiece though; that still walks in the daylight, or maybe in the moonlight depending on when I manage to run into her. So far, I've learned her name, her age, and through idiotic small talk each time we've chatted briefly, the things she happens to like.

  She belongs in my cabinet; part of her does. On the top shelf, perhaps a majestic crown of sorts to always remind me that I was able to achieve the acquisition of my most prized piece for my display.

  I'll look for her today. Maybe I'll find her, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll spend the day and night wandering the city aimlessly looking for someone else to place in my cabinet in lieu of her head, but there are things that I know are true. Things that anyone who deems to whisper my story needs to understand and believe.

  I can stop anytime I want to.

  I am not a serial killer.

  Chapter One

  I fell asleep on my couch. I didn’t mean to, but I always found such a relaxing comfort in looking into the faces of death that I had helped create. I wake up to a wet sweat pant leg from where I had spilled the coffee on myself, and I sigh loudly. I’m not a messy man, and this annoys me that I had done something so normal.

  I get to my feet and walk into the kitchen, crouching down in front of the small wooden doors in front of the sink, and pull out a stain cleaner that I use frequently. I reason that if it works on blood, it will work on coffee. And if it doesn’t, I would just rip up the carpet in a rage that would sometimes descend over me, and I would get rid of it.

  The rage has nothing to do with control. I am controlled; it is just something that happens every now and again to remind me that I am human. Maybe rage isn’t the best way to describe it. Maybe severe frustration would be a better term.

  I quickly walk back into the living room and drop onto my knees just close enough to the stain that I am able to spray it and let the foam set before I scrub it away. I wait almost in frantic impatience as the stain starts to turn white, the foam starting to coat it, and hovering above the spot with an old rag ready and dying to remove any trace of my unconscious misstep.
/>   I’m not a messy man. The longer I hover, the more seconds that tick by, the more I want to rip my hair out. Why does it seem like it is taking so long for the foam to rise? When will it finally give me the signal to scrub away the spot of mess that is taunting me below it? It is almost as if it is laughing at me, telling me that there would be no way I will ever be able to get rid of it.

  Fucking finally!

  I immediately drop the rag into the raised foam and began to scrub furiously. I don’t want the stain to think it won, I don’t want it to believe that it could sit there, in my home, and mock me each time I come to look at my cabinet. This is where I come to relax and goddamnit, this fucking thing will be gone one way or the other. I refuse to share my home with it.

  I’m not crazy.

  I understand that this may seem like I am, but I just like to keep a tidy home. I spend a solid minute moving the rag back and forth, quickly, furiously, as deeply into the carpet as I can—beads of sweat starting to form on the side of my face until I dare to lift it and see who has won.

  A victorious, smug smile spreads quickly over my face as I get to my feet. I reach down and scoop the stain remover off of the carpet and walk back into the kitchen, placing it back into its dark little home and tossing the rag into the sink. I won’t be able to clean it right away, but I will open the faucet and let a generous amount of scalding hot water pour over it until it will be safe for me to touch again.

  The stain cleaner is a special mixture of my own—the secret to die safely when I did. Not that it would come to pass anytime soon, but I just like the idea of having secrets. It helps me stand out when I need to, and it keeps me safe when I felt like the world is crashing down around me.

  Secrets aren’t always a good thing, especially not my secrets, but as I’ve said, it’s for the sanity of myself that I keep them and the safety of others that they don’t pass my lips.

  Not always.

  I won’t tell anyone my secrets until I find her again. I’ll tell her everything; a confession of sorts, get them all out of me, and then when she finally understands what goes on in my head, she’ll accept her fate.

  Not that I would.

  But then again, I’ve always been something of a fighter. Not necessarily a strong man, though I do like to keep my body in shape. I believe the saying that your body is a temple, and I enjoy having a finely built structure of my very own.

  I’m not vain.

  Vanity is a vapid trait, and I’ll have no part of it. However, I’ve come to find that most women, and some men, like a particular body frame, and I like to attract those people. The ones that I know will be easiest to seduce usually are used and sent on their way, but the four that I already have made love to my mind with simple conversation. That’s how I knew I had to keep them.

  I like having conversations about almost anything. Someone that can hold my attention long enough to indulge my mindless chatter is definitely someone worth keeping. I’ve never let any of them go except for her.

  She’s seduced my thoughts more than once, and I like the game of cat and mouse that we play each time we come across each other. She always leaves me in a stunned euphoria, though I never really retain much of what she says. I wasn’t sure if it was the sound of her voice, the way her eyes lit up when she talked, or my wanton need to sever her fucking head from her neck that kept me coming back to her.

  I don’t really remember what she looks like. If her eyes are black, blue, green or brown. If her hair is black, silver, brown, or red. Her face presents itself as a blank slate each time we meet, and I’m tasked with putting the pieces together.

  It’s a thought that keeps me awake at night. Not that I’m one for sleeping much, as I’ve said. I won’t take her head like I had done with the others. I won’t be frantic about it; I won’t be sloppy about it.

  I’m not a messy man.

  I keep a room refrigerated for things of this nature. The cool air keeps me happy, and the warmth of the blood when it splatters against me is very arousing. The sound of the little drips and drops when I’m done and the screaming is over, are so captivating. A secret melody that only I can witness as they greet Death in the afterlife and are fucked horribly by whatever demons await them.

  I try not to have sex with them.

  Sex isn’t the point, but sometimes when I’m standing there watching the blood drip from the gaping wound, I can’t help myself. The most I’ve done so far is slide my cock into a hollowed out hole that I’ve made in the neck. It wasn’t for sexual gratification. It was because of a boyish need to know what the blood, bone, and sinew felt like against my skin. A self-discovery of myself, one could argue.

  I haven’t done it again.

  I want that to be perfectly clear.

  There are other holes that I won’t have to hollow out when I bring her here, and I haven’t decided yet if I’ll fuck her when she’s still alive, or if I would do it at all.

  There are a lot of things I haven’t decided when it comes to her. The only thing I know for sure is that I’ll make a grand masterpiece of her, and she’ll be happy here. She won’t have a say in the matter, of course, but I want to make sure that she understands fully why she’s being displayed when the time comes.

  She’ll discover that there’s more to life than the mundane, everyday nine-to-five jobs that drain so many people. She’ll find out that living paycheck to paycheck, drowning in debt, wondering where the next meal would come from isn’t something that should have to plague anyone.

  I’ll take away every fear that I know is lurking inside of her and in the act, I will rid myself of the thoughts that often take over me in the quiet moments I have to myself. The ones that threaten to steal my sanity if I stay still long enough to listen to them.

  I am stronger than my thoughts, and I have to find her soon or be relegated to a weeping, insipid human being in the corner of my home behind bricks, wasting away, and waiting for Hell to come and swallow me whole.

  Chapter Two

  I’ve put the rag away now, under the sink with the stain cleaner where it belongs. I’ve gotten dressed and am ready to roam the streets to find her, but as I hover in front of my front door, I feel like something is missing.

  I think I know what it is. Maybe today isn’t the day to look for her, maybe what I need today is some pain, and I know just where to go. I don’t know if I’ll get what I need this time, what I feel I deserve, but I’ll try it again. One of my best facets is that I don’t feel fear. I mean I do, but it’s such a rare occasion for me to feel anything that I welcome the moments when I can put myself in danger.

  As I walk out the front door of my home, I reach into my front shirt pocket and pull out my half smoked pack of cigarettes. I know what you’re thinking; if I’m so hell-bent on keeping the shit I put into my body to a minimum, then why do I smoke?

  It’s a simple, quick satisfaction.

  That’s all I can really say about it. I’m sure I can stop anytime I want to, much like taking skulls, but I like to enjoy a cigarette every now and then. For instance, this pack has lasted me three weeks. I don’t smoke much, I find the taste unsavory and the scent it leaves on my clothing is enough to turn my stomach, but I’m very good about finding things to keep me calm. This just happens to be one of them, so allow me this moment, please.

  The end of the cigarette burns brightly as the death hidden so neatly inside of the tightly manufactured paper catches fire, and I inhale deeply. The burning smoke that travels down my throat and into my lungs, blackening them slowly, mummifying them with invisible and hollow fingers, sends a shiver through me. I always feel that way when I haven’t had one in a while. I don’t know if it’s because I can feel myself becoming a living sarcophagus or if it’s because I just don’t care. But what I do know is that it’s that simple, quick satisfaction that I’ve already explained, that makes all of the damage worth it.

  It may be a selfish thought to have, but I’m entitled to selfish moments just like anyone el
se. And as I walk quickly along the pavement toward my destination, I wonder if maybe I’m not as hideously minded as I’m led to think I am. No one is appealing to my eyes today, which means they’re all safe. I can usually find something about anyone that would make me want to bring them home to entertain me for a few hours.

  Not today, though.

  Today is a day for some much needed pain. It’s a day to feel without the usual irascible thoughts that would taunt me for not having my main display piece yet.

  Pain is a beautiful thing.

  It jars all of the senses and brings to life things inside one’s self that you didn’t know were already there. It lurks, waiting for a chance to come to the surface; pain is a great equalizer. Some can sustain more than others, and those are the ones I like the most. The ones that can last longer before they’ve reached their breaking point. The ones that bite their lips until they’re raw and bleeding, tears streaming down their faces, until they finally submit to the bliss of pain.

  It’s a lovely, cool day in Kalispell, Montana today. I chose this place purposely because the temperature would drop drastically in the winter meaning I could work outside instead of my home if I wanted to.

  I haven’t had the chance to do it yet.

  One of the most cherished places for me here is a chalet-style mansion on the edge of town. It teeters near Glacier National Park, but it’s not easily accessible. It’s a hidden mecca of tears, blood, and the occasional exquisite death hiding in plain sight.

  Most of the people fear me there. My brand of pain is different than what they’ve experienced or have witnessed before, but the truly brave ones always rise to the challenge for me.

  Most, but not all.

  I reach the intersection in the center of town and feel a strong wave of confusion wash over me. How did I get here? This isn’t the direction I need to go in, but yet here I am.