Years before Daniel Klamath became a murderer, he met a woman he was sure one day would be his wife. He was so certain of this, he took her home with him, to meet his mother.
Nevermind the fact that he took the young lady quite against her will, and nevermind the fact that his mother had been dead for some time.
The young lady would struggle, and Daniel would thump her lovingly between the eyes, just enough to see stars. Perhaps constellations depicting them as mythical lovers in the sky.
She would attempt to scream through her gag, and Daniel would whisper soothingly to her to shut up and just enjoy his company.
All throughout the hours of this first day of their betrothal, Daniel wooed her with original poetry that frightened her on a visceral level. His light kisses on her cheek were met with shudders.
The second day, like those that followed, mirrored the first. On the eleventh day, Daniel slung her lifeless body over his shoulder and carried her down the steep steps to the garden.
He had not murdered her, not really. He had merely allowed her to expire. Murder would come later, when that evil fruit had grown from its purple black blossom into foul fruit.
Leaving her soiled gag and bonds in place, he muttered a pagan's prayer, and dropped her into the compost bin.
He softly spoke a goodbye to his lost fiancée, and asked her to tell his mother hello when they met. His inner laughter at the pun of a greeting in hell being spoken as hell-o showed itself only in a slight twitch of his lips.
He closed the lid of the bin, and headed back up to the house, then the garage. He needed to go to town. First for something to eat, then to look for a bride.
(c) Brett Campbell, 08.06.15
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