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The first one had been spur of the moment if he was honest. He had been a bit tipsy and went home with a guy from the bar. They got into a fight. He smothered him with a pillow. That was how he learned how… satisfying it was to take a life.
The second time was much the same, just without the fight. It wasn’t as satisfying smothering him while he slept, he liked it when they fought back a bit.
The third time he used a knife. That’s how he learned he liked it when they bled. He wanted more than just a slit throat.
The fourth time he brutalized them, left the body barely recognizable to be a person. He didn’t like that as much as he thought he would. He liked it more when the body was recognizable.
The fifth time was perfect. He kept the face intact, cut open the gut, and freed the organs. He repeated that method every time after that, it was his little ritual.
The organs were always so eager to slip out of their bodies. They had been so fascinating to him ever since that day. He had wanted to play with them, feel them squirm in his grip. He still wanted to be honest. He wanted to squeeze a heart until it popped. He wanted to cut open a pair of lungs and watch as they deflated. He wanted to try and strangle someone with their own intestines. He wanted to be soaked in someone else’s blood.
Those were simple fantasies though, nothing he could indulge without getting caught. And he didn’t wish to be caught. Especially by the pathetic excuses of officers that were his coworkers. The ones he delighted in taunting and confusing with the scenes he made. They were so squeamish, getting sick at the sight of some spilt guts. Always so scared when the station received a letter, made of cut up letters selected to get to a scene.
He wasn’t planning on killing any of them anyway. Nobody he worked with was really his type, for killing or flirting. He liked younger guys, nervous types who he could fluster with ease. They were all too eager to come home with him. If only they knew.