ALL ALONG I WAS THE SERIAL KILLER, BUT THEY NEVER KNEW

Pretty Little Boxes

She always cleaned up afterwards. That was part of her ritual — the erasure.

The wire went into a velvet-lined case, labelled and coiled like a collector’s item. The gloves, soaked in blood, were sealed in a Ziploc bag. Bleach wiped down the chair legs, the floor, the door handle. Nothing left behind. No prints. No stray hair. There is no evidence.

She worked like a machine — precise, practised. This wasn’t her first scene. She had a checklist for every step.

When she returned to her apartment, it was barely sunrise. The sky outside was still bruised from the night, the city just beginning to stir. She passed her neighbour in the hallway — old Mrs. Dhalia — who smiled and said, “You’re up early again, dear.”

“I’ve got yoga,” she lied with a smile. “Namaste.”

Inside, her apartment was a contradiction: sunflowers on the window sill, books stacked neatly in alphabetical order, a record player spinning soft jazz in the corner.

But the most unsettling thing in her sanctuary?

The wall.

Behind a sliding closet door, pinned and catalogued, were photos — of men. Each with a red X across the face. All of them monsters. All of them are gone.

And below those, a second row — untouched. Yet. Their secrets were still alive. But not for long.

She walked to the kitchen and pulled a small, decorative box from the top shelf — carved with delicate roses. Inside, another photo. The girl in it couldn’t have been older than eight. Blonde. Big, hollow eyes.

The same girl from her nightmares. The one who never spoke.

She placed the box on the counter and poured herself tea, steady hands betraying no emotion. But her gaze remained locked on the photo.

“They never asked what happened to her,” she murmured.

Not the police. Not the school. Not the foster system.

They didn’t ask about her, either.