Disclaimer: This piece is purely fictional. None of the events, characters, etc are fictitious and are not meant to reflect real lives, events, people, etc. I do not own the copyrights for the materials which have inspired the creation of this piece (American Psycho, Written by Bret Easton Ellis and The X-Files, Created by Chris Carter). I should also emphasize the fact that this story is NOT based on my life !
A/N: This story will get pretty slash/femmeslashy toward the end, so I'm warning you ahead of time ! Also, prepare yourself for a whirlwind of violent and paranormal-driven themes. Inspired by Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho
and Chris Carter's The X-Files
.“Hollow As The Sky Is Vast”K. R. KingIntroduction
I once thought that life would be as simple as the setting of the sun upon the horizon on warm summer's eve. How naïve and pretentious I was, at best, in those days. Questioning everything, and gaining nothing from the arguments I provoked. I thought I was learning, and I thought I was growing. But what I find now, as I write upon this page, is that I did in fact fall into an infinite regression.
I’d lost everyone who’d ever meant anything dear to my heart and soul-my mother and father, grandparents, siblings, even my husband…and no distant relatives to speak of for me to turn to for a place to live. My life began in a downward spiral, and believe it or not, it continued to barrel down into even greater depths. I never would have thought such a thing possible, but alas, it came to pass.
Always the proponent of liberalism and free thought, I considered myself to be above the staunch, close-minded, and ignorant elders of the day.
I never gave a spare moment’s time reflecting on the dangers of my own curiosity and open-mindedness. In fact, I allowed it to consume my every thought and movement. Back then things were different. Liberalism was the fashion of the times. It was considered to be the height of class to be noted as a radical reformer.
I am the perfect example of the wretched epitome of corruption. I didn’t just stretch the moral fibers, I twisted them. I manipulated them until there was no part of my real soul left to consider the repercussions of my actions. I took things much too far. God help me.Chapter I April 29th, 1988 FBI Headquarters Washington, DC 2246h
No one has time anymore for dinner with the family or a date on the beach with that special someone. Today, it’s all about life in the fast lane, the gaining of wealth and corruption of the government. Today, the heart of the world is black and decayed. But I’m not thinking about any of these things right now.
Right now, I’m thinking of how much paperwork I still have to sift through on the Vinceletti family murder investigation. I sit hunched over my desk, coffee abandoned as I survey the crime scene photos that lie in disarray before me. Sometimes I ask myself why I do what I do, and then I look at the faces of countless victims.
I see death, and I remember why. I do this because it keeps me believing that I have the power to make a difference. I do it to save lives.
Looking into the glazed eyes of Elena Vinceletti, I take into account and memorize every mark on her body. Her eyes, ironically enough, seem to be the only features intact, while her cheeks have been slashed open and her tongue has been almost completely severed.
Her throat lies in total ruin as I can see that it too has been stripped open and left to bleed into oblivion. The blackened blood itself is so full and thick that I have to look away for a moment and pull myself together before returning to the photograph.
This time, I concentrate on the sexual aggression that can physically be seen on the victim’s inner thighs and vaginal area. Bruising and swelling litters the femininity of the victim’s body, and I notice that there are also small slit marks where blood has been left to seep over the thighs and knees. As I continue to scan over the picture, I allow my mind to open up to every fleeting thought that might explain every mark on the victim.
I close my eyes, trying to visualize the murder as it happened. If I were a sick, psychotic son of a bitch, how would I slay an innocent flight attendant on a full transatlantic flight and get away with it ? I must consider the surrounding circumstances of the murder, as well as the fact that there is not one witness for whom I can rely on to give valid testimony in court.
At this, I sigh and set the photograph aside, exchanging it for another, even more bloody and gruesome than the first, and continue in this same fashion for several more hours.
Startled, my eyes flutter open and I sit up too quickly, blood rushing through my head as I clear my vision to see who is speaking. I must have fallen asleep, I think to myself, looking up at the wall to see that it is nearly five o’clock in the morning. The speaker happens to be my partner and seven year long friend, Karyn. A spunky, graceful woman in her early thirties with flowing auburn hair, sapphire eyes, and a brilliant sense of wit and sophistication, Kary (as I affectionately call her) is one whom I consider to be my best friend and personal conscience. I stare at her blankly for a moment or two, seeing her smile at me and asking if I’m alright. I beam back saying, “Of course, why wouldn’t I be ?”
“I don’t know, maybe it’s because you fell asleep at your desk after staring at death for several hours. Don’t you think your own bed is much more enticing ?”
I laugh at this, stretch, and stand up. “Only when there’s someone in it.”
Kary nods in affirmative agreement, laughing heartily. “Ain’t it the truth !”
I turn around and pick up my FBI jacket, turn out the lights, and we start to head downstairs into the lobby and down into the parking garage, which is below the building. Our conversations range anywhere from work-related issues to love, family, and relationships.
She tells me about the latest crisis ripping her family apart and how hard it is to deal with a mother and father who seem more concerned with their own troubles than holding fast to their children.
I listen quite intently, having nothing to lend but my ears. Sometimes the best thing one can do is just listen. Karyn and I have so much in common that sometimes I wonder if we aren’t psychically connected in some eerie way. We approach my car, a black 1988 Toyota MR2, and stand there for a few minutes longer. It is about five-thirty now, and I’m so exhausted I worry that I may not be able to make it back to my apartment alive.
Kary offers to drive me so that I have a sure way to get there safely, and I accept without complaint or protest. I live just outside the main hub of DC.
As Kary maneuvers the MR2, I am barely conscious. My nerves are almost completely shot from staring at Death for seven hours without rest or relaxation. We pull up alongside the Tour DeHaven Luxury Apartment Homes and Kary begins the turn into the parking garage, only to discover that orange cones and roadwork signs have blocked it off. She manages to detour around to the back of the eight-story tower and is unimpeded as she settles my car into its assigned space within the garage.
The elevator reaches the third floor and by now, I find myself leaning on my friend for support. I can’t begin to count the number of times I have been in this same exact situation. Finally, the light flashes to notify the inhabitants of the elevator that it has stopped on my floor. Kary helps me into my apartment and then into my room to make sure I change into something comfortable to sleep. She points out to me, as I weakly stand in my fatigued stupor, that she would hate to wake up in the morning with standard issue hand gun impressions, and can I imagine how painful that would be for me if she left me fully dressed.
The last memory I have of this evening is of Kary’s sapphire eyes and porcelain smile as she tucks me away to bed, just as my mother did when I was a small child. I make a futile attempt to whisper a goodnight to her, but the darkness has already begun to melt me away into a sound slumber, and I cannot resist it any longer. Karyn understands this, I trust, and so she takes her leave…at least I think she does.
Sunlight strikes my face, rendering my eyes stricken and blind. I look over to the clock, which reads 1:33 p.m., and sigh. I still feel the effects of the all-nighter as I drag my body up from the comfort of my goose down bed to go into the kitchen for a cup of black coffee. Much to my surprise, however pleasant it may be, I have to do a double take before making another step toward the kitchen. Lying upon the black crushed velvet sofa in my living room is Kary--sound asleep. I smile to myself gratefully, considering her kindness in staying with me to make sure I slept completely through the night.
I approach her quietly and kneel beside the sofa to wake her gently. Today may be my day off, but I can assume that it is hers as well.
"Karyn...Karyn it's half-past one..." No response, so I nudge her softly and repeat myself a little more loudly, "Kary...it's hald-past one in the afternoon
. Are you on-call today?"
A sigh escapes from her as she opens her eyes and replies, "No...not today...I'm off today."
I smile, relieved to know that I won't have to cover her ass for being late to work. "Thank you for driving me home last night. I never would have made it on my own."
Kary returns the smile, laughing. "Funny thing is, now you have to take me back to HQ for my car!" She sits up, stretching her trim body, and finally stands. "So, you feeling up to running over there so I have a way home tonight?"
"Of course! Tonight? You aren't planning on spending the day with me, are you?" My smile fades into one of slight puzzlement.
"Actually, I thought it would be good for the both of us to get away from those haunting case files for a while. How about lunch? I know you don't want to stand over the stove, and I sure as Hell don't want to either."
I laugh at this sliver of truth. I used to love to cook, but not anymore. Maybe it's because I don't ever seem to have enough time any to relax and focus on what makes a meal enjoyable. This is a lie, one I tell myself on a daily basis. Kary's point recalls a memory in my mind, the source of truth. A memory of Mark. This memory is all that I think about, even as I respond to my friend. "How about a change of clothes for you first? I can't be seen in public with someone who slept in what they're wearing! That would be...a major fashion no-no!"
More laughter. But all I am thinking about as I drive Karyn over to her place is the last time Mark and I were together.
Thanksgiving Day, 1981. In my mind, I see us in his mother's kitchen, preparing to serve the co-cooked Thanksgiving Dinner. This is also our eight year anniversary as a happily married couple. I have never been as content in my entire life at this point. His laugh is....deep and resonating. Perfect. The only thing that can make me smile, next to his kiss. It's...perfect. The sound of children playing out in the backyard echoes through the kitchen, but I am deaf, unaware of their laughter. Only my own, and Mark's.