On the quiet, tree-lined streets of the U. neighborhood, there was that house. An old, solid, imposing building, with Italian architecture, huge windows, a beautiful backyard with a swimming pool, and an air of superb nobility that contrasted with the rest of the neighborhood, which had seen better days. That enormous house had given rise to many stories. Stories of dreams, stories of adventure, stories of love, stories of giving up, stories of horror. Each of the carefully decorated walls seemed to still echo some of those tales, some of those moments in time when someone gave their heart to another, or had their heart ripped from their chest.
It was in that house that P. lived, completely alone. No one knew the reason for his loneliness, no one cared. The neighborhood had its share of loners and oddballs. But P. wasnāt odd; he was even too acceptable. Italian type, white, with black hair, blue eyes, a tall, 6-foot-10 build, and 220 pounds well distributed across an athletic build. Anyone would say he would be an ideal husband and father. Except for one detail. His wife would hardly last many days alone with him in that house. P. paraded through the hallways that others had helped decorate for him, obsessed with every detail. Every small painting, every piece of furniture, every decorative object, evoked a story. Every detail in the house was a memory; the mansion was a tomb of memories, some more pleasant than others. His age? Oh, yes, P. was exactly 45. His profession? Lawyer, by sheer necessity. His hobby? P. was a serial killer.
But hey, not your typical, unstoppable, immortal, Hollywood style serial killer. He was quite strong, but he certainly wasnāt bulletproof. P. was cunning, very cunning. He killed for pleasure, that was true, but he also killed carefully, and every, literally every one, of his victims remained in that house with him. Not their entire bodies, of course. The number of bodies would be bigger than the house could hold, and the smell would attract attention. P. was discretion personified. Only a piece of each victim remained with him, there in that house, forever. An arm, a leg, a tooth, their hair, their genitals, a liver, a heart. Something always remained. P. kept them all, his beloved victims, in his memory and in his heart. He made sure that the house where they died would never forget any of them.
P. enjoyed society, even though he was antisocial by nature. He loved the strange kaleidoscope of human gatherings, how predictable, how surprising, people could be. Being a handsome man, luring people into his home, where they would never leave, was the easiest thing to do. A discreet neighborhood, where prying into your neighborās life was a mortal sin, made everything easier. P. amused himself by imagining how many hundreds he would have to kill and incinerate there for someone to even vaguely suspect he was a complete and incurable psychopath. Perhaps not even a sign on the door reading āA psychopath lives hereā would help. They would assume it was a prank.
Itās been said that P. collected people, parts of people, the part of them that he thought best represented them. A very vain woman would be immortalized there through the skin of her face. A prankster, through his lips. A model through a leg or her hair. An inveterate lover through his heart. How did P. attract so many people? He was, as Iāve said, a lawyer. He offered to solve peopleās problems for the right price. And he truly took pride in solving them, permanently.
One of his recent victims was a rather attractive woman. With a few well-prepared drinks, he managed to get her to say everything he wanted to hear. The problem was that the medication worked too well, and he wondered when, if ever, she would stop talking. When she wouldnāt stop, he changed his usual tactic and made the sedative work easier. Naturally, the part of her he kept was the tongue.
He hated graphic violence. He was terrified of movies like Friday the 13th. He disliked gore, guts spilling out, or excessive screaming. He was an aesthete of death. All his victims died without having the slightest idea of what was happening. And there were many. Lawyers, doctors, dancers, musicians, artists, beggars, priests, Christians, Muslims, anarchists. He loved hearing a little of their story before putting each one to bed. But he was getting bored recently; he needed something new, something never seen in that house before. A Buddhist monk? A one-eyed prostitute? An honest politician? He thought about it for a long time and came to the conclusion that what he wanted now was a writer.
Thinking about it, he didnāt know many writers, but that was exactly what he needed: a literary figure with whom he could have a minimally interesting conversation before sending him off from this world. For several days, he kept trying to find someone among his acquaintances who could fill that role. He didnāt want just anyone, but a published, somewhat well-known writer who, preferably, was in a terrible phase of writerās block. Someone who was precisely looking for inspiration. He tried and tried again to search among his acquaintances, and was almost giving up when luck, literally, knocked on his door.
The guy, whose name was W., wasnāt just experiencing writerās block, but an acute existential crisis. Within the first five minutes of conversation, P. realized heād have to play therapist that day. All to expand his collection.
Part of his work ethic was to always try to hear the victimās side. He discovered there was something worse in life than a manic psychopath: an editor. W. wanted to sue his editor. Excessive demands, harassment, disrespect for his lifeās work. W. didnāt want to and couldnāt write anymore, but he needed to make the editor pay what he owed him to continue supporting himself. This more technical part of the conversation was what bothered him the most. The case was even clear and justified, but what did it matter? After today, there would be no more editor, no more W., no more anything. All that mattered to him was getting into that mind and discovering what set it apart from the others.
After convincing the tearful W. to drink his magic potion, P. managed to extract everything he wanted from him. They talked for a long time about literature and culture in general, and the serial killer marveled at the knowledge hidden in that depressed, overweight shell. W. had read a little of everything, knew the classics inside and out, and understood every literary style. He had practiced many of them, but had only achieved success writing the cheapest thrillers. In his dreams, he was a new Proust. In reality, he was just another airport literature writer. This was the main reason for his despondency: having to sue a publisher for the rights to literary trash he never even wanted to write. Just to keep eating.
The writerās block made the whole situation worse. Because if before he wrote rubbish but consoled himself by writing whatever he wanted in his spare time, now his mind was stagnant. He couldnāt write a single paragraph. His only solace was to drink as much as he could and then embrace gentle, forgiving oblivion. Listening to those lamentations, P. wondered if it wouldnāt be worth it, just this once, to let nature take its course. In the state that poor soul was in, suicide was almost inevitable. Heād seen too many cases like that in his career. He thought for a moment and said no to himself. He had a work ethic to uphold. That wreck of a man would die that day.
The choice of which part of W. would stay in that house was obvious: the brain, though dulled by depression and alcohol, had its value. The idea of āākilling that brain, which was obviously far more intelligent than its owner let on, excited him, and he immediately wanted to steer the conversation toward its conclusion, offering W. a second drink, this time much more efficient. At first, the would-be Proust who wrote terrible thrillers seemed to faint completely. It was clear that the dayās work could begin.
The task was simple. After the client fell into a deep sleep, a delicate cut was made to the jugular vein. The person never had the slightest idea of āāwhat was happening, so the entire process involved neither screaming nor despair. He hated scandal. W. didnāt have to be any different from the dozens and dozens of people before him. Looking at the body sprawled on the floor, P. wondered how anyone could fall into a trap so easily. But there wasnāt much to think about. He picked up the blade and brought it to the writerās neck. To his great surprise, W. woke up at that moment and asked him what he was doing. P. was speechless, having given him enough tranquilizer to lull an elephant to sleep. Could it be possible he would have to change suppliers? As he thought this, W., looking at the blade in P.'s hand, immediately broke free and attacked him with a powerful punch to the jaw, which caught W. off guard.
Perhaps it was W.'s brain, accustomed to high doses of alcohol, that made him react differently to the drug. Who knew? What did it matter? The decadent writer, sweating heavily and very nervous, ran toward the door. P. couldnāt let him escape. He would ruin everything. He hated violence, but the house was equipped with every kind of weapon for an emergency like this. The door was locked, the windows too; W. didnāt stand a chance. Or did he?
The only way out seemed easy. W. was out of shape, but he knew how to defend himself. His only disadvantage was that he was drugged. In an equal fight, he could kill P. P. decided to be discreet, using a pistol properly equipped with a silencer. W. was banging on the door loudly and shouting for help. The door was practically soundproof, but with all that shouting, someone might hear. P. could lose everything, except his facade of harmless neighbor. It was just one shot, but a well-aimed one, to the head. P. regretted that it would damage his brain. For a moment, he wondered why he hadnāt just let W. go.
He approached the gasping, dying body. His first victim among the literati. Would it be his last? He bent down to feel W.'s breathing, and, surprise again, the man was still alive! He began to mumble a few meaningless phrases, gripping P.'s neck tightly, as if he never wanted to let go, as if he wanted and needed to take P. with him to the grave.
Now, P. felt relieved. Those modest lines were the best thing heād written in a long time. Without pressure, without despair, they came naturally, precisely on the day heād decided his writing career was over. But it wasnāt; there was still fire to burn, there was still something to say. The very next day, he would call his editor, tell him to go to hell, and even if he had to give up the house where heād written so many of his stories, he resolved never again to write anything he didnāt want to.