I was growing attached to her. Gradually I was becoming accustomed to the freedom that came with her company. The mask that I carried with me was discarded and the Dexter that only my victims saw was revealed to someone that would live through the night. Over and over I would find myself sprawled on my bed lying naked next to her. With the sheets tangled around us, her breath caressing my heated skin.
I felt truly free.
Deb was the first to tell me about her, on a Tuesday after lunch in the middle of summer. What feels like an eternity ago, but was actually only eight months. "Pretty, sweet and way too naïve," she started, "She'll be spit out and on her way home in no time. Poor girl." Her grin betrayed her last statement. As it were Deb was dead wrong on all counts. Lucille was far from naïve, as sweet as saltwater and she wasn't merely pretty. Lucille was beautiful. And Debra didn't like her, not one bit. Something about her just rubbed my sister the wrong way. After three weeks of trying to hide her disdain towards the girl, she gave up and made her irritation awfully clear. The poor girl was left sobbing and trying to be "kind" I went and followed her out into the hall she had disappeared down and was met with the very last thing I expected.
Lucille had very large indigo blue eyes. And when her dark passenger showed herself their color became oddly tinged with a peculiar sky blue. She didn't like it when someone yelled at her. She was angry and bitter and when our eyes met I knew she could see right through my mask and I, hers. I liked her. Lucille told me she had only killed a few handfuls of people; with time I found that she was not impulsive and had admirable self control. But when she did kill she made one hell of a mess. Once, not long after we met Lucille told me she hated that about herself, how either she didn't kill or she killed viciously. She said I was lucky to have control over that.
Our relationship was intimate from the very beginning. I liked her auburn hair and how she carried herself. I liked who she was but also the mask she chose to wear. Her minimalist, cautious and polite behavior never changed, although everything else did when we were alone. Her sweet naïve mask disappeared and revealed a gentle, intuitive, and resentful nature. Lucille didn't let things go easily, she would always glare at me when I mentioned Rita or her children. My "normal" relationship irked her endlessly. But she never said anything. She knew I knew she didn't like them. Words were unnecessary. Maybe, I liked her so much because of that; her eyes would watch me carefully for a moment and she just knew whatever I was thinking. Or, maybe, I just liked taking off my mask with another person.
We kissed the day we met, a blistering hot afternoon, in the parking lot hidden behind an SUV. Her lips were soft and she tasted like cherries; impossibly sweet and tangy. She had smiled and asked if she could go home with me. The car ride back to my home was mostly silent except for Lucille's eight questions. I would later learn she asked all her victims the very same eight questions she asked me on our first car ride. I liked her questions, along with her way of killing. Liked how she wanted to know her victims before she took their lives.
Lucille was very passionate about her crimes; she enjoyed them, thoroughly. When she told me about them that day we met her eyed had glowed in their intensity. She wasn't like others that killed for people to see or out of mere impulse. Lucille lived for her kills. Lived for the bliss they brought her. I often thought of her as if she were a thunderstorm. You could feel it in the air when her dark passenger grew restless, like an electric charge. Lucille would insist I chose her victims for her, she always said I had a great eye. She began each kill slowly; gently drawing out her pleasure as much as she could. Then, she killed in a shower of blood and flash of her blade. It was beautiful afterward. The blood splattered on her face and all over the room. She looked so calm kneeling on the floor watching the fresh corpse with a quirky smile pulling the corners of her lips up. Watching her killing was something I enjoyed greatly. She told me she liked watching me too.
We had sex that evening we met. I had truly never cared for the act but Lucille thought it was only enjoyable when you didn't hide behind a mask. Almost like killing, she said, you couldn't pretend to be a decent person when you were committing the ultimate crime. You couldn't hide behind a mask and expect pleasure. She was right, she always was. I liked sex with Lucille. Liked how I didn't have to pretend it was more than a carnal act. Hard and fast and rough. No caresses, no lying, no sweet nothings, no mask. Just pleasure, gasps, and moans. It felt nice and I always slept soundly afterwards. I asked her after that first time how she knew it only felt good without our masks. She said she always had sex with the men before she killed them. She had laughed at the look on my face, given me another kiss, and curled up against me. She fell asleep faster than I did.
I liked her laugh.