Elizabeth Smith, Part Two

Man, it’s been a while. I was surprised to find that I had actually only posted one section of this story so far.

Music this time is a demo by Disappearer, a band that I could find literally nothing about online. I found this demo at a record store in Philadelphia for a dollar and absolutely loved it since the first time I heard it.


This first major act of Elizabeth’s was important to her and the rest of her life for obvious reasons. As far as we can tell, though, she had no ill mental effects from committing murder. Her relations with her family and friends was the same, no one would’ve guessed the charismatic young girl was responsible for Monty’s disappearance.
There was an investigation, of course. Teachers, students, parents, and anyone who might’ve been nearby were questioned, but no one had a clue what had happened. No one except Elizabeth.
She was questioned, of course. Many of the students in the class, after all, had been involved in passing the note back to Monty, which came up in their retellings of the day of the murder (though we didn’t know that was what it was at that point).
She said, through shaking and tears, that she had waited behind the school for him to come meet her but he never arrived. She got tired of waiting after a while and left. She hadn’t a clue where he had gone. She thought maybe he just didn’t like her the way she liked him.
The police involved in her “interrogation” (of sorts), bought it. This pretty, friendly girl, straight-A student, lots of friends… She couldn’t have been involved.
Around the end of her high school years she began volunteering at a nearby humane shelter. She had a certain fixation on animals, as is already evident in what has been said so far, and it served her well as a way to spend time with and help them.
That, and gain information on people who abused the animals who ended up there.
“There you go, all cleaned up and ready,” Elizabeth said to to dog in front of her, giving him a pat. She had just given him a thorough wash, cleaned his wounds and splinted his broken leg.
“You really have a way with them,” said one of her coworkers, Natasha, from behind her. “No one else was able to get near him without him trying to bite, let alone touch him.
“I think he should be fine, now,” Elizabeth said, “He was just hurting earlier.” She lifted him off the table he had been standing on and put him on the floor, put a collar and leash on him, and handed the leash to Natasha. “Keep an eye on him with the other dogs, though. I have a feeling he might not get along well with them.”
Natasha nodded and walked out of the room with the dog. With her out of the room, Elizabeth went to a clipboard on a nearby table and flipped through it, looking for the page for the dog she had just taken care of. She found it and memorized the information.
She didn’t always take action. Not for every animal. But this dog had come in in an exceptionally terrible state. Cigarette burns all over his body, including some on his face near the eyes, a couple gashes on his torso – some still fresh, but some that had scarred over long ago, so this had been going on for a while – and a broken leg. She had felt his other legs, and felt a slightly malformed bone in one of them, so she thought that had been broken at one point also.
She cleaned up the room, waiting for the clock to strike five o’clock, then left the humane society. Her parents were, well, oddly normal. No alcoholism or drug addiction, abuse, affairs, or really anything. But they were pretty relaxed, and both of them worked quite late shifts, which gave her plenty of time.
Plenty of time to go to a movie.
She walked to the theater, bought a ticket for the longest movie running at the time, and went inside. She knew the guy who ran the counter, somewhat. They went to the same school, had a few classes together, and had spoken a few times. He had asked her out on a date once or twice, but she had turned him down. He wasn’t the kind of guy to give up, though, and always looked hopeful when she came in to the theater. She thanked him for the ticket with a smile, then went into the showing room.
She stayed long enough for the lights to dim, then made her way out. She had gotten good at leaving the room without anyone noticing. She left the theater through a back door that it seemed everyone had forgotten about, then headed out toward… “154 School Street,” the image of the clipboard in her mind said.
This could go any number of ways, depending on what he ended up being like. He, “Brent Schumer.”
She arrived at the house and, quite conveniently for her, he was working on his car outside. That made the first step easier. She strode up to the front of the car, where he was working underneath the car on a mechanic’s creeper. She leaned on the car and nudged the creeper with her foot.
“Listen, Jen, I’m not…” he said, sliding out from under the car, freezing when he saw Elizabeth there.
“Who are you?” he said in a gruffer tone than before.
“I dunno, who do you want me to be?”
She saw Brent’s eyes dart across her body, then he got off the creeper and stood up in front of her.
“What do you want?” he said, evident to Elizabeth that ideas were already forming.
“I dunno, what do you want?”
He paused for a moment. “How old are you?” he asked, his paranoid eyes telling more than his words.
“I dunno, how old do you want me to be?” she said, the corner of her mouth turning up into a sly smile.
He leaned in closer to her, speaking quietly in her ear. “Are you sure you want to do this, kid? I don’t want to… I just want to make sure you’re okay with it.” His eyes darted from side to side.
“Only if you are,” she said.
Without saying another word, he scanned the surroundings, no cars driving near, then took her by the arm and led her inside. He let go of her once they were in the living room, then walked away, saying over his shoulder “I’ve got a lot of grease and sweat on me, I’ll just clean up a bit first.”
“Sounds even better to me,” she said, then leapt to him, pushing him backwards by the chest, kissing him intently. She saw a door leading into a bedroom beyond, and kept walking back with him until they reached the bed. She pushed him back onto it, still kissing him, felt him unzip his pants and start lifting up her shirt, felt the buckle on her bra release, watched it be thrown to the side, and laid down on him, hands down, slipping off her pants; and setting something from within them to the side on the bed.
He let out a soft groan as she mounted him, then began thrusting, his eyes closed and head stretched somewhat upward, all outside awareness diminishing in the moment. She kept her eyes on him, playing along and planning when she’d proceed.
She could tell he was close. His neck flexed back further, pushing his head down and upward, his thrusting increased, then she leapt off him and grabbed the knife she had set aside.
He looked up, first unaware of what was going on, thinking she was just trying to prolongue it, then saw the knife and glints paralleled in her eyes and the blade.
He smiled nervously. “I didn’t know you wanted to get so, er, freaky.”
She said nothing, but smiled. She grabbed his penis, put the knife below his testicles, paused a moment to capture the look on his face, and sliced through them both.
They say damage to the genitals is the single most painful experience a man can have. And that’s generally just physical force, not slicing them all off in one go.
His screaming instantaneously broke through the ceiling of what his vocal chords could handle, it devolved into a slight hissing of air escaping his mouth combined with occasional gurgling.
After watching him like this for a few minutes she dragged him outside, making sure no one else was around, and put him in the driver’s seat of his car, covered him with a cloth, and started the car with a pair of keys she found in his house. She sat on him, making sure to slam her body down onto his blood-drenched crotch, smiling at his increase in muffled screaming, and began driving.
She had put on a pair of gloves after slicing off his genitals and had made sure to note everywhere she had touched beforehand and wipe them down after.
She drove down onto a little-traveled road along the edge of a steep cliff. The guard rails were broken and twisted in areas where others had lost control. She pulled up in front of one of these gaps in railing, felt a slight drop in her stomach when the front wheels dropped over the edge, then put the car in neutral and got out with the cloth, locking the door. The car crept slowly toward the edge. She stood to the left, watching Brent’s expression of pain and terror, incapacitated to do anything other than fling his arms, desperate and weak, to the door, trying to open it. She gave him one last, cruel smile, then went around to the back of the car and gave it a push.
The car teetered, she gave it one last push, and it tumbled off the edge, crumpling and smashing before it even got to the bottom. With an explosion, sound muffled by the distance, it burst into flames.
Elizabeth sat watching it for a minute, her legs dangling over the side, then began her journey back, trying to stay relatively hidden by the side of the road. It would be hours if not days before anyone noticed, but there was no harm in being careful.
She arrived at home just in time to have lasagna with her parents, telling them eagerly about her enjoyment of working at the animal shelter.


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