The answer is not as complex as you may think. I’ll answer it from a simple laymen’s standpoint and talk about the connection between a killer, a victim, and a murderous event that brings them together. Think of it much like a hunter and the deer he shoots. The head of the dead animal (trophy) is mounted on a wall and all attention goes to how the animal was tracked and shot (action), not how the deer (victim) lived.
To killers, human victims are nameless individuals who have no real-life worthy of noting. They have no real identities, instead, they represent the symbols of a killer’s desire and anger. A victim’s name is merely a footnote to a killer’s eventual emotional and physical explosion. It doesn’t matter how many lives the victim helped when they were alive, what scientific discoveries they made, or the amount children they raised, the killer sees them as the symbol of their rage. For instance: That short blonde who bullied them during their adolescent years, or, the neighbour’s bearded father who sexually abused them when they were four. The kill represents victory over the symbol and the all-important trophy allows the sensation to remain after the initial catharsis fades. Killers value their trophies. They have a deep connection with them that’s so intimate that they’re unable to share them with anyone else. Think of it as a secret, possessive love affair. It’s precious. Telling anyone would spoil perfection and ruin the love.
My story is a little different. I put my trophies in a place where people can see them every day. I like knowing that the evidence of my indiscretions is within reach of the most important people in my life. The more intimate the relationship, the more prominent the trophies become. From my perspective, it’s a game and one I win daily. My grievances are no greater than any other, but the choice to display my trophies in an open space is unique. So is where I put them. I’m not sure why do it but I guess it comes to be because the abuse I suffered came to me later in life. My adult mind sorted things out differently. I suppose it tempered my post-murderous behaviour in a most peculiar way. Displaying the most intimate part of my private life in such an intimate position of my day-to-day life says everything. I’m sure Freud would say I had some repressed sexual feelings towards my mother.
God, I hope not.
You’re probably wondering what is my type of trophy. Is it tongues, ears, or perhaps labias?
I suppose I could keep some kind of fleshy object but blood objects aren’t my type of trophy. I never even planned the first kill anyway, not consciously — and I kind of made it up as it unfolded. God, I was so nervous when it happened but so elated. I barely remember the specifics through the excitement and euphoria. The whole thing was so wild. It was just like that first kiss when…umm…
Sorry, I digressed.
Spontaneity. That’s what made me grab what you would now say was a trophy. I didn’t even think about it like that. I was more worried about being found out by the police. I knew they could track me through the victim’s phone, so I snatched it from the ground and smashed it into little pieces. The little SIM popped out and it was just sitting among the bits of debris. I had to have it. I stuck it into my pocket and promptly forgot about it while I busily dropped remnants of the phone in several places on the way home. I found the SIM later. I put it into my sock drawer — and that was the beginning. I’ve kept one for every victim since.
SIM cards. That’s my trophy. I like them. They’re small and represent the kill. They also have a tiny amount of gold inside them, did you know that? Anyway, I had five of them before I knew it. They lived in a plastic bag, under my socks. My wife found them and wondered how they got to be there. I said I’d been collecting them for their gold and was going to make something of them. She wanted to know where I got them and my answer was easy. Some were from old phones I owned and the rest were found on the ground at various times. I told her I was going to recycle them and make them into charms, for her teddy bear’s bracelet. She thought that was a great idea, thanked me and gave me a peck on the cheek.
“And here’s one from Teddy too. I know he’ll love them,” she said, kissing me a second time. “See? He’s already smiling.”
That bear gets more respect than I do. So do all the other stuffed animals and dolls on our bed. It’s like she never grew up. We’ve been married for almost ten years and I’ve still got to remove them from our bed each night before I go to sleep. And I have to lower them to the floor gently. If I toss or drop them she’ll flip out and call me an abuser.
“They’re not real,” I’d say.
“They’re real to me! So stop dropping them!” She wouldn’t talk to me for days. There’s no crossing Sam or her childhood friends.
To keep the peace, I now place her toys in the corner of the room just as softly as can be, like I was tucking a baby into its bed. Teddy is their smirking gang leader. He gets to wear the charms I make from the victim’s SIMs. Whenever I make love to my wife, I look to the side of the bed and watch that fucker’s stupid face smirking at me. It enrages me to see him living in comfort while I’m made to service his mistress. It’s as if I’m the toy and he’s the man of my mansion.
And then I look down at those little charms on his fluffy wrist. “I got you and your bitch mate. If only you two really knew how you got those charms.”
I guess you could say Teddy is not just a symbol of Sam’s childhood, he’s a symbol of my desire and anger. He’s a muse and my nemesis. I despise him but I need his wrist of trophies to get me across the line and finish off. Sam and Teddy get what they want and I get something I desperately need.
The rest is inside the book below.👇
Five women’s bodies are discovered after the nights of thunderstorms. Their spouses are suspected of the crimes, but it becomes clear that someone else is responsible. There’s no blood and few clues. A storm photographer specialising in taking lightning pictures may be the only witness.
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