I caught myself stammering like a schoolboy. What was giving her this power over me?
I am twenty-seven years old, and for the last three years, I have been responsible for the disappearance of at least one young woman a month, sometimes more. I'm not bragging, but I am good at what I do. I never feel anything for any of them. They are just nameless toys. I pick one up, promise her the moon, and take her back to my little playhouse. Then we would have some fun. I was not really what you would call cruel. I would give the girls a drink, laced with a little sedative, not enough to knock her out, but to keep her from putting up too much of a fight. It would be like undressing a doll. I would keep her for a few days, have a little fun, and then dispose of her. I really wasn't doing any harm.
Everyone knows, there are more women in this world than men, and it's not as if they were really good for anything. Well, they were good for one thing, but I enjoyed it much better my way. No break ups, no tears, no shared property; just clean and tidy. I had lots of variety, and I never really felt like I was hurting anyone. Oh, I suppose, their families may have missed them for a little while, but life goes on and everywhere I look, was another little blond, or brunette, or redhead. I never feel anything for any of them.
Dad had always taught me that women were not worth the space they took up on this earth. Mom had been a good example. Dad would come home drunk, knock her around and she would always come crawling back for more. He couldn't hurt her enough to make her leave. Finally, he went a little too far. Mom is buried in the back yard. No one ever missed her. It wasn't like she was the world's greatest cook or anything. Dad never gave her enough money to buy enough food to cook a decent meal, then he would beat her because all she put on the table was a pot of beans, or occasionally a watered down pot of soup with no meat.