My Pet Serial Killer Read online

  

  BY MICHAEL J SEIDLINGER

  Praise for My Pet Serial Killer

  “Fifty Shades of Grey with cataracts of blood.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A rowdy menagerie of the unexpected, this book will delight and disturb even the bravest of readers; all preconceptions of what to trust and what to fear are masterfully upended.”

  —Alissa Nutting, author of Made for Love

  “It’s rare to be able to say so, but, in this case, it’s hard to say otherwise: Seidlinger’s book is unlike anything I’ve read before. Strange and alarming, unique and capacious, this novel will surprise you.”

  —R.O. Kwon, author of The Incendiaries

  “Michael J. Seidlinger’s My Pet Serial Killer is wickedly subversive and, at times, just plain wicked. Seidlinger’s use of the grotesque is masterful and his novel deserves to be on the shelf next to Poppy Z. Brite’s Exquisite Corpse and Cormac McCarthy’s Child of God, and, baby, once it gets its claws into you, this dark masterpiece will keep you reading long into the night.”

  —Nick White, author of Sweet and Low

  “In Michael J Seidlinger’s My Pet Serial Killer, the pleasure of the gaze and violence of the gaze and repulsion of the gaze and necessity of the gaze perform acrobatics, leaving the reader breathlessly disturbed. In this world, the cameras are always rolling. Violence is both real and performed, with viewers and actors who overlap and ripple, layer after layer. We are transfixed, we are afraid. We follow Claire and her pet, though we, too, might be her pet in this dark world. What are our expectations? What are we desperate to see? Seidlinger deftly offers space for us to answer those questions for ourselves, and it’s uncomfortable. Perfectly so. My Pet Serial Killer functions as a cultural critique that is both disturbing and enjoyable, both real and surreal, and ultimately hard to put down.”

  —Tessa Fontaine, author of The Electric Woman: A Memoir in Death-Defying Acts

  My Pet Serial Killer

  Copyright © 2018 by Michael J Seidlinger

  ISBN 9781946487025 (paperback)

  ISBN 9781946487032 (e-book)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017930079

  Published by FANGORIA

  Cover by: Ashley Detmering

  Design & Layout: Ashley Detmering

  Typesetter: Kirby Gann

  Copyeditors: Molly Wolchansky

  Distributor: Consortium Book Sales & Distribution

  Associate Publisher: Jessica Safavimehr

  Producer & Publisher: Dallas Sonnier

  Author: Michael J Seidlinger

  First Edition September 2018

  Printed in the United States of America

  

  Table of Contents

  BE MINE.

  Claire, student, master.

  Being found as a number of clever pickup lines.

  There can only be three walls if you plan on having a window.

  Your ego is the only reason you are here.

  There’s a serial killer living next door.

  How many people really want to be found?

  Who sleeps in your bed besides shame and sadness?

  Shh, don’t say anything you’ll regret in the morning.

  Call me when you need someone to talk to.

  The body is still warm.

  The killer calls every morning.

  What part of human nature is a mystery?

  Does this sound like someone you might know?

  She found you first… never forget it.

  Stop talking like you’re me.

  Anything behind a locked door is there for a reason.

  Students write “I’m going to die” on their shirts.

  What’s on your mind at this very moment?

  On a scale of 1 to 10 stars, 10 being the best, how would you rate me?

  Their mystery is a cliffhanger ending.

  The audience, the viewer.

  YOU’RE MINE.

  Every body is found.

  Danger drives 95mph.

  A fantasy is worth pursuing.

  Why watch what you don’t understand?

  To love anyone you must first love yourself.

  Trade in a walk in the park for a walk in the dark.

  Lives aren’t shared, they’re stolen.

  You want what you cannot have.

  Be mine and one day he’ll be yours.

  You’ll believe anything as long as it makes you feel better.

  Let’s get lost together.

  Sincere apologies make for an excellent aphrodisiac.

  Anatomy of a true love; or, a lesson in successful manslaughter.

  We were close once.

  If traveling south of any border, make sure to be well manicured.

  Home is where my heart is hidden.

  Let’s skip right to the honeymoon.

  My pet, my perfect pet.

  BE MINE.

  Claire, student, master.

  0.

  She’d like to meet you. She really would.

  What’s your type?

  Being found as a number of clever pickup lines.

  1.

  Start with the first and the last.

  What is and will always be.

  I went to class. I listened to the lecture. I participated in the discussion, telling them my side of the narrow story. I spoke of what might be something I’d like to study. It’s getting to be that time… it’s assumed I’ve learned enough, and now peers and professors demanded that I teach them something in return. A thesis posited and presented; learn from me, learn about something.

  I went to class.

  Have I learned anything?

  2.

  There’s always a party.

  Since there’s always a need to forget, there’ll be a party so that people can escape themselves while seemingly finding one another.

  It’s why I’ll be there. I have yet to find and be found.

  I hope there’s someone.

  It’s something I have to continually remind myself.

  Keep searching. Keep talking to people.

  Never know when you’ll find someone new.

  When there’s a serial killer living next door, the end is predictable. The end isn’t what’s exciting. At the end, the killer will kill every single one of us. The end is boring and bloody.

  Where’s the fun in that?

  Life and death are boring, but you got to keep going.

  That’s why I’m standing around, watching everyone as they arrive. It’s the “Who’s Who” party and things have yet to pick up, so what else can I do?

  I’m watching people magnetically assemble into perfect conversation circles with the strict purpose being for—what else—gossip and gloating.

  And I see people sitting on the couch, leaning against walls and other fixtures, writing rapidly on white cards, and they’re hiding what they write from everyone else—no one can see—because it’s not their turn yet.

  And I’m looking at my card. My card is blank.

  It’s early, and the frat house hasn’t even begun to spillover, but people are already playing the field. Some guy’s standing next to me with his back turned, and he’s writing too, and when he notices me looking at what he’s writing, he doesn’t cover up with his other hand like everyone else does. This is where this guy would sense that maybe, just maybe, I’m interested too.

  But I’m not.

  I’m looking him up and down. There’s really no fight in him.

  He wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t. . . so often it’s the excuses that give them away and leave me disinterested. So often they’re already tamed. Where’s the fight in them? Like, when I’m not interested, shouldn’t they try
harder? Aren’t we all looking for the same thing?

  And then I’m looking back down at my card, pen in hand, and I don’t have anything to write down. I’m not going to write anything down—not my name (Claire Wilkinson), my age (26), my real hair color (brown), my current hair color (blonde), my eye color (blue), my major (forensics), my turn-ons and turn-offs (you wish), my birthplace/hometown (yeah, right); and there’s no use in trying because I probably won’t end up going anyway.

  Whatever I do is like whatever I drink: For appearance more so than approach.

  I know what’s going to happen.

  I’m a great observer.

  Key to any of these college parties is the fact that there’s really nothing more than an everlasting momentum slowly increasing until it meets its peak and then it’s all about letting it slide until just before dawn.

  If you want hard facts and a clear pickup game, you go to clubs and bars downtown. People get caught up in each other’s mistakes and murmurs going to these parties. It’s always a momentum that leaves most feeling welcome, but lost all at the same time. You’re only at these parties if you’re still new to the game we all play.

  Different night, different crowd, same intentions, same results. It becomes the same kind of game after a couple; these parties are practice and nothing more.

  There’s a gimmick to get everyone started on the drinks and the smokes and the pills and the specialties and the thought that it’s okay to speak up and speak out because that’s what everyone believes this party, and every party, is for. But even if it wasn’t, after a drink or two, no one’s going to care what is said and who’s saying it.

  People fall into each other.

  This is how they get lost.

  This is how anyone is found.

  Easy enough to get.

  Since I already explained the first couple hours of any university party, skip forward to where we are now. They start talking and I’m thinking I should say something because, well, I’m standing close enough–my fault, I’m not usually this close–to make it look like I’m supposed to be in on their little chat. I’m in the circle, but I’m not talking, not yet, so I feel like I have to.

  I’ve got to say something.

  And what do I say?

  “I’ve heard Professor Derrick’s paper is going to be thirty pages.”

  It’s the perfect thing to say if you don’t want anyone to say anything back.

  They nod, and that’s that.

  And their gaze pans across the party and now I’m supposed to feel out of place. I’ve become uninteresting and unappealing. I’m free to leave them for another corner, another random spot at the party. Wherever I’m planning on going it’ll be precisely the same—the ten second attention spans, the desperate need to get drunk soon. Now, now, ten minutes ago. People trying to be found, wanting to effortlessly join in on whatever it is that’s going on.

  What are they talking about?

  Take it from me, they aren’t talking about anything.

  People that don’t really know each other, pretending they’ve known each other all along. Going around passing drinks, passing stories, passing around the tray of temptation because, inevitably, we’re all here wanting to be found.

  Person, find me.

  How about this person. . .will you find me?

  But it’s not that easy.

  Try this one for instance–

  Says he’s a Foreign Language major and goes on and on about the subtle differences of a language, any language, but he gets the big things mixed up. He says Spanglish. He says Chinese when he means Japanese. He’s talking and talking and talking and I’m pretending to listen. I’ve already written him off as just another somebody.

  He might make someone happy. . . maybe not. . .but that person won’t be me.

  So, what does it feel like to be left out? I couldn’t tell you. I don’t feel I’m being left out. I don’t feel like I belong; you can’t really be left out if you never were brought in to begin with.

  I’m only here to observe. That’s what I do, and I feel like I’m on the verge of something.

  I’m always looking and looking, but I feel like I might figure it all out soon. I might find what I want to find. Until then, it’s more of the same, where the same is kind of like the words and sentences running together, and the images too, but the worst part is when the sound is ever-so-slightly off and whatever it is I’m doing, I end up doing either too early or too late.

  People are talking and I’ll never know who’s talking, much less becoming the one that talks and carries the entire circle. Circles always hold on for dear life.

  What I’m accustomed to: smiling, nodding and—

  Everything that’s done to hide the fact that I’m searching.

  That’s what I’m accustomed to, and it’s probably not what you were expecting.

  People are no longer writing on their cards. They’re all now laughing and turning to other people and laughing, forming even more premeditative party circles like this one. The music’s so loud that it’s impossible for anyone to feel like dancing. The music’s so loud that it’s hard to hear the rhythm. Everything’s a bass-beat and an earthquake.

  People are quaking to get started.

  And the circles around me keep switching topics—from majors to comparing class schedules to rating this week’s celebrities—and I’m considering where the circles will go next. It can only be something from a very short list. I bet I could get it right if I wanted to.

  Now people are lining up for the big drink-starter.

  It’s the same sort of start-up and end, but the biggest difference is that everyone’s going to finally put themselves out there.

  The gimmick of a party is everything.

  With these parties it isn’t about saying something catchy; it’s about saying something so easy to remember it can’t really mean anything. Everyone is trying to figure out how to do it.

  How to introduce themselves.

  What isn’t yet obvious to them is how impossible it is to do just that.

  They’ll inevitably settle for something that’ll never really amount to anything. It’ll be something to say, and something to stand by for the rest of the party, but watch how quickly it fades away.

  “You’re studying pre-law?”

  The following day, the only thing that can be said is, “Oh, I must have forgotten.”

  This party’s about to pop, about to really fall into place; everyone’s ready so they’re eagerly lined up. People are practicing the process of the “Who’s Who” by thinking about how to say their names; they are trying to think of something interesting about themselves.

  There I am, observing them all from near the keg.

  People, they’re all getting nervous, feeling faint when the first person starts reading from his card, and it’s something right out of pop culture, references, lyrics, and all.

  And everyone’s frantically writing on their cards again. I’m watching them sip the cheap, watered-down beer; the first person to go just ruined it for everyone else.

  The gimmick has changed, just like that, from “Who are you?” to “Which celebrity/idol would you rather be?” This isn’t as interesting a gimmick as it might seem, but maybe it’s more suitable for the people, this party. Everyone seems to give off the same glow of desperation.

  Probably why I’m not paying much attention, and it’s probably why I’m not going to find what I’m looking for. Not tonight.

  Instead of self-deprecating humor and introductions, we get a couple dozen people all pretending to be the same pop idol. My attention’s coming and going; I’m watching one celebrity impersonation-as-introduction after another, and then they’re given a congratulatory drink and they’re chugging it, spilling it all over themselves. But it’s a party, and everybody takes the sight with that desperately booming laughter, and then I’m watching the previous hug, the one going next, and it all starts over again. Over and over and over and over. />
  Getting tired of this yet?

  Imagine how I feel, but I’m constantly reminding myself that I’m here for a reason. And whoever it is I’m talking to (probably talking to myself) should still understand that this is me, this is only me, and it’s about what I need to become.

  And now I’m watching a couple that might not actually be a couple arguing. I assume they’d never met, but then the girl is shouting at the guy. It’s the kind of shout that isn’t directed to strangers. I’m hearing the familiar twinge of unrequited proclamations. I’m seeing an anger that isn’t just anger; it’s also an inadvertent attack based on the girl’s knowledge that the guy might not be as into her as she is to him. The guy doesn’t seem to take it well, but can’t do anything about it. Since the introductions, people have caught up on the drinking. Many are drunk, and this guy, he’s nowhere near sober. So when he hits her, it makes sense, even for her. She takes the smack in stride and delivers one of her own. The circle nearest to them cheers the couple on. It goes back and forth like this, one slap after the other, until they are bleeding, but just barely. My attention wavers when I realize it was going to end up forgotten too.

  Just another one of those typical flare-ups, done partly for the attention.

  Always about attention.

  And then what happens? Well, the same thing that happens every night.

  The room gets smaller, so I’m stepping aside as much as I can, as often as I can. I’m moving out of the action, watching it all blend together.

  People choke on body heat, but they’re way too into it now to stop.

  They’ve got to see this through.

  At some point I leave, go home, and pass out. Whatever I drink is never enough to defeat me, but I always feel the effects of it, a shallow numbness climbing on top of me, trying to fuck me over when I wake up the next morning for yet another day of graduate research and class.

  All that goes on between the time I get home and the time I pass out resets and starts over again. It’s the kind of stuff that is never worth thinking about later. All I know is when I’m awake again, whatever happened is gone. Forgotten. For the many that are involved, this is what they’d call a success. They have forgotten and been forgotten.