Butcher of the Bayou

Part 7

I navigate the muddy paths of the bayou, the weight of the bracelet in my pocket and Papa's warning still ringing in my ear. I am not worried he will turn me in. Papa is the keeper of secrets in Cyrpus, so to speak. He would never help the authorities.

My steps are hesitant, each squelch of mud beneath my boots echoing the pounding of my heart.

Suddenly, a glimmer amidst the tangled undergrowth draws my attention. My breath catches in my throat as I approach cautiously; the stench of decay hangs heavy in the air. I know what it is before I even get close enough to see the lifeless form of a young girl, her body partially concealed by the murky waters of the bayou.

Another Victim. 

I approach the scene; my heart races with a mixture of dread and morbid fascination. The moon casts an eerie glow upon the water, illuminating the gruesome tableau before me. I can't tear my eyes away from the lifeless form lying in the shallow water, the girl's limbs contorted at unnatural angles, her skin pale and mottled with bruises.

 I kneel beside the body, the squelch of mud beneath my knees barely registering in my mind as I lean in for a closer look. The stench of death has my stomach churning. My eyes trace the jagged wounds that mar the girl's flesh. This girl I don't recognize, she is not from here.

I should feel repulsed, sickened by the sight before me, but instead, I feel a strange sense of exhilaration. I long to know all the details of her demise.

Who is she?

How did she end up here?

Did she scream for her life to be spared?

Sirens in the distance pull me from my dark thoughts. I linger a moment longer, committing every gruesome detail to memory. I know I should leave and let the authorities handle the rest, but a part of me is reluctant to go. There's a thrill in the darkness, a rush of adrenaline I love.

Detective Cooper will soon arrive on the scene. He will find me here, and his question will follow. We will play another game.

 Did he leave the bracelet on my porch? 

I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see Detective Cooper's figure emerging from the shadows, his presence heralded by the harsh beam of a flashlight cutting through the darkness.

With a deep breath, I rise to my mud-covered feet, my gaze lingering on the lifeless form before me for a moment longer. 

As I make my way home, the subtle violet glow of morning starts to paint the sky. I pass by lotus flowers as they emerge from the swamp. This beautiful flower lives in the most vile, muddy water of swamps and bog. This flower stays in the mud and muck all night long. Then, at sunrise, it climbs toward the light and opens into a pristine bloom. They are Mother's favorite. When I was little, we used to go out each morning and pick a lotus flower. I smile, remembering better days before death came knocking at our door.