Detachment

warning: contains graphic scenes

-----------

Kuala Lumpur
0634

I am a man with not much to do. I am not old; in fact I like to think I am in the prime of my life. I am thirty-five years old, handsome and wealthy. I know this for a fact; I dress well and all the pretty young things in Kuala Lumpur look my way whenever I pass them by. When my parents died years ago I inherited my fathers wealth and have been sitting comfortably on it ever since. I've never worked a minute of my life. I don't need to.

Which means that I have a lot of free time on my hands. And I like having lots of free time. Often I go out to play golf with some acquaintances. Other days, I'll hit the nightspots in the city and maybe bring a girl back home; two or three if they were really drunk. I don't care what they are: Chinese, Indian, Malay. I do make a point to be careful though; hence, if you take a look in the drawer beside my nine-thousand-ringgit bed, you'll find boxes of condoms and even contraceptive pills, which I got illegally. Sometimes I slip a pill or two in their food the next day, even when I was sure I put a hood on the previous night.

Sex isn't something I pursue often. Don't get me wrong; I like it, and as I speak, there's a gorgeous, naked Pan-Asian girl lying in my bed (she gave me a good time last night), but it doesn't give me as much pleasure as it should. I don't know. Maybe because I always have it easy. As I said, I'm a very good looking man, and I'm charming to the girls I take home.

I dress well, too. If you look inside the walk-in wardrobe of my penthouse you'll see rows and rows of immaculate suits, designer shirts and jeans and slacks, and a stack of shoes. My apparel must be worth hundreds of thousands. I particularly like putting on a designer sport-coat with a white t-shirt and a faded pair of jeans with polished black loafers. I have found that it works when picking up girls; I guess there must be something attractive about appearing casual but sophisticated.

But I digress; like I said, sex isn't as fun as it should be to me. I need a challenge. I need something that would goad and coax my sedentary mind. After years of doing nothing but leech of a hefty trust fund, I need outlets to satisfy my curiosity and urge to live life. I don't have friends. After my parents died I realized I don't need any. I'll get by fine just by myself. I think that friends are only there when you have something to offer them, or if you seem that you could be of benefit. So I discarded my friends a long time ago. I also don't believe in relationships for the same reasons. After all, with my looks and money, why stick with the same woman for years and years when I could have a fresh new one anytime I want?

People are overrated. I'm fine by myself. Always have been. But like I said, that also means that I'm pretty much bored all the time. I suppose I could go speeding down the highway in my convertible Ferrari. Or maybe I could jet off on my private jet to Langkawi and sail on my yacht. Those are things I do from time to time. But whenever I do it, I feel detached and soulless, like I was meant for something else.

I guess when you have everything in the world, nothing really feels that special anymore. Oh well.

I was watching an episode of CSI last night. The forensics team solved a murder where the victim had been decapitated and dismembered, and the body disposed of in a plastic bag in a dumpster. I watched that episode with fascination. I've always been intrigued by the crime of murder, and with death in general. I guess, ever since my parents died, death has always been a shadow over me. I remember that I didn't cry when I was told my parents were killed in a road accident. Maybe I just didn't care. Like I said, people are overrated.

But the subject of death, as I mentioned, has always been a morbid curiosity of mine. I like to surf the internet, looking for pictures of dead bodies and stuff. Its surprising what you can find. I remember watching the video of the execution of a soldier in the Middle-East; I watched it over and over again, often pausing at particular moments, like when the executioner first pierces the man's neck with the knife, and the moment he oscillates the knife to cut through the bone and siner and muscle of the American; I would rewind the video to listen to the screaming, when it would abruptly end as the knife cut through the windpipe.

The episode of CSI I watched, and my recollections of that execution video convinced me of one thing: we humans are nothing more than bags of meat and blood, just waiting to be torn apart. Either that's by nature or some artificial intervention, well, that's to be seen.

How could another human kill someone? And I don't mean the question in a terrified and shocked way; I mean it as an honest question: how could you kill someone? Murder must be a thrill to pull off; you know, the thrill of hunting a human being, the satisfaction and gratification of success, followed by the fear and worry of getting caught; and if you don't get caught, the sense of achievement. It must be exciting!

It made me think.

Hmmm.

Could I kill someone if I wanted to? What do I need to pull it off?

Hmm. What would be my motive? I have none, I think. Money? I have tons of it. I don't have a steady girlfriend, so I can't be a scorned lover. Besides, if I did have a girlfriend, it was highly unlikely that she would cheat on me, a handsome and wealthy young man. Spite? Hate? No, I don't hate anyone, nor am I spiteful. And one of the benefits of having no friends is that you also have no enemies.

So I guess I don't need a motive.

But who would I kill?

Children are easy. A naive, simple minded child could easily be enticed to accept a treat from me. Then I guess I could kidnap the little squirt and kill him somewhere else. But the downside with kids is that, when one of them goes missing, they tend to generate too much attention. And logically, the more attention, the likelier it is that I get caught. I wouldn't like that. What about old people then? They're almost dead anyway. I could be doing them a favor by speeding their journey to the afterlife. But then again old people would be boring to kill; they wouldn't put up a fight. That wouldn't be fun. And I'd also cross-out young men, as they're likely to fight back and overpower me. So that leaves young women then; in fact, I think young women would be the easiest people for me to kill. After all, what lass would resist my obvious attractions?

That's settled then.

But how would I go around doing it?

I'm good at picking up girls; in fact, that's probably the only skill I possess. It's not that hard anyway. All I need to do is show up at, you know, maybe Zouk or wherever in my Ferrari. And then I'd start buying drinks and chat them up. Promise them a good time. Give me one hour. I think by the end of the night, I could have a pretty young thing home with me. Obviously I'd need to sex her up first to make her feel easy. That's what drinks and sex are for then.

Okay, I got that figured out. When should I kill her? I don't want to run the risk of her screaming or making a bolt for the door or something... so the most convenient option would be to kill her when she's asleep. Yes! That is the best way to do this. What should I use? Well, I don't have a gun, so shooting is out of the question. Guns are also loud, which I don't like. I have a set of golf clubs; I could bludgeon her skull while she was sleeping. Then again, I don't want to risk damaging my set which is worth thousands. I also have an expensive knife-set, hanging on a magnetic rack, in the kitchen. But wouldn't that taint my knives? What if I don't clean them properly and then I use it on my food and the food gets contaminated?

I have these thoughts as I stand at my penthouse window in the early morning, looking at Kuala Lumpur come to life. In my bed lies the Pan-Asian girl. I forgot her name; it was Marissa or Maria or something. I walk back to my bedroom and watch her smooth naked body. Her breasts slowly rises and falls as she breathes. I am a bit aroused. I sit on the bed beside her and caress her neck. Her skin is very smooth, and she looks very comfortable as she sleeps on my nine-thousand-dollar bed. Well, she should. The bed was hand-made by expert craftsmen. The wooden frame is rich and precisely cut.

Craftsmen. Bed. Wooden. Craftsmen... Bed... Wooden....

An idea is brought to life inside my head. Eureka!

I leave the bedroom and rummage through a storage room. I am looking for a few things.. there they are! Like I said before, I have plenty of spare time, and I think a year ago I suddenly wanted to take carpenting as a hobby and bought a cordless nail gun and a small cordless chainsaw as well as a cordless drill. But before the hobby took off, my interest waned (I found it boring even before I started) so the tools were left to collect dust in their boxes in my storage room. I open the boxes and check the charges. The batteries on the power tools were fine. I carry all three of them to the bedroom. They are quite heavy. I place them gently on the floor beside the bed and sit myself.

Marissa-or-Maria is beautiful, I have to give her that. I caress her neck again and her body. She smiles in her sleep. I smile myself. I almost want to apologize, but what for? People are overrated. I turn my attention back to my tools... and pick up the drill. There is already a tip on it.

I place the tip gently on her forehead; she must have felt the pressure of the small point. She opens her eyes, and thats when I press the switch. The drills whirrs to life and I press down with not much pressure. The tip buries itself into Marissa-or-Maria's forehead; flecks of skin and bone spatter me in the face. Her eyes bulge open but she does not scream; instead her jaws lock up and I see her hands grip the sheets. Her body writhes. I take my finger off the switch and place the drill on the floor.

The girl wasn't moving at all; but I don't know if she is dead or not. Blood squirts out in a small, high pressure jet from the hole between her eyes.

I look at her, feeling an odd sense of detachment.

Was that it? I killed her? That was murder?

Hmh.

Doesn't seem like much. So I pick up the nail gun, open her mouth and shoot, oh I don't know, maybe a dozen nails into the back of her throat. Her head jolts with every nail I fire, but I guess she must be dead as there's no other reaction from her at all.

I frown. This isn't as exciting as I thought it would be. In fact, for me, this is just like sex.

Sigh. Well, I might as well go all the way then. I turn on the small cordless chainsaw and swipe it across her throat; the blade cut through her neck so easily, it was almost comical. Her head rolls down the side and drops to the floor with a dull thud. Blood splatters my feet and is gushing out from her stump of a neck.

I sigh inwardly as I just realized that this will make a huge mess in my RM2 million penthouse.

Oh well. Let's get on with this.

Using the chainsaw, I cut off her limbs at every joint. Skin and muscle offer very little resistance the powered tool. The bedsheet is now pooling with blood, soaking red. Lazily, I push the blade of the chainsaw through her stomach, causing her guts to splatter all around me.

Dammit this is a mess. I did not think about this aspect.

Now Marissa-or-Maria is lying in, oh, maybe about sixteen or twenty pieces on my bed. I switch off the chainsaw and throw it aside. I stand beside the bed, looking at the mess I made. What now? What should I do with the bits and pieces? Burn them? Throw them away?

Sigh. That seems like so much work! And the killing wasn't even as fun or exlihirating as I thought it was going to be!

I guess that means life has nothing to offer me anymore, not if taking it away from someone else is this boring.

I am covered in blood. I almost slip in a puddle of the stuff as I walk out the bedroom. I make myself a cup of coffee and sit down on the sofa, and I grumble to myself as I realize I just left a bloody trail of footprints on the floor.. and now my sofa is stained as well. Furthermore, I'd have to dispose of the body!

Murder isn't worth all this work, I think. I began feeling a bit annoyed with myself. I hate doing chores. And killing the girl just left me with a bunch of chores to do: clean the bed, floor, sofa, not to mention think of a way to dispose of her remains.

This is irritating me. I pick up the phone and call the police. A woman answers and I tell her I want to report a murder. At first she almost doesn't believe me. But then I tell her again that someone has been killed and I give my address (shouldn't she already know this? Don't the cops have a system or something?).

The lady on the phone tells me to stay where I was and that some policemen would be coming over. I say okay and hang up. I go up to unlock the door, drink my coffee and wait for the cops. About fifteen minutes later there is knock on my door. I tell them to come in. I don't want to get up.

There were 3 police officers and also the security guard to my condominium complex. They were about to say something when they saw me sitting on the sofa, drinking coffee and covered in blood. I see one of the police officers look at the trail of bloody footprints I left. The policemen suddenly raise their pistols and point it at me.

I raise my cup of coffee to them and motion towards the bedroom.

"She's in there," I say to the frankly bewildered men in uniform standing in the doorway. "It's a bit of mess though, so watch where you step."

"DON'T MOVE!", shouts one of the policemen; he had a thick moustache and small, bright eyes. But he looks scared.

I take another sip of coffee.

"Move?" I say. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm too tired. I'm telling you boys, murder isn't as thrilling as the TV shows crack it up to be. It's messy and a waste of energy. Worst of all? It's boring."







------------