There’s a dead hooker in my bed and I don’t know my name.
Not the best way to wake up in a shitty, little motel room. The first glance around doesn’t reveal anything significant. It’s a motel room. I somehow know she’s a hooker, but not quite sure why. Just a gut feeling, since I can’t remember anything, starting with my name. What is my name? I get up and look around. Sure enough there’s wallet on the floor. Mark Walters the I.D. says, doesn’t ring a bell, but the face on it is mine. The name on the credit card is different, Brad Jenkins on one, Billy Mays on the other. I’ll stick with Mark.
The dead hooker is obviously strangled. The blue markings on her neck can be spotted from afar. This doesn’t look good. Concentrate, I think. What happened last night? Then I remember I’m still not sure what happened the last…32 years according to the I.D card.
“Anybody in there?” Someone says and knocks on the door.
Fuck, I curse. “Everything is all right. What do you want?”
“Just reminding you that you have to clear out in an hour. “
“Sure thing, yeah.” I say and the footsteps on the other side move away.
I look at the body, the room around me, the body again. A big gym bag in the bathroom catches my attention. I walk into the cramped bathroom and open it. There’s a hacksaw and a whole shitload of knives, plastic sheeting and trash bags. Walking into the room I look at the body again, then the saw, the body, the saw.
It’s almost natural and trained. I know exactly what to do. Just with a few moves I cover the bed in plastic sheets; the floor and the walls too. The girl looks so peaceful on them. She looks asleep, except for the mutilated neck. I take a big butchering knife and place it against her arm. No hesitation or reluctance, it slides across flesh. I cut deeper and deeper until the blade hits the bone. Something’s missing though.
I walk back into the bathroom and take the bottle of cologne. Smear it heavily right above my lips, under my nose. Blood, flesh and dead bodies smell. It’s not pleasant, but there’s a feeling in my bones that I’ve done this before. Back to the task at hand.
Hacksaw in hand, cutting the girl’s arm in half I can’t help but think about how demented I must be. Not much is coming back to me yet though. Things just feel natural. The saw cuts the bone in half and I toss the severed arm into one of the trash bags. “Still an arm, two legs and a head,” I think.
The clock says 10:15. 45 minutes until this place needs to be cleared out. A gut feeling tells me I’ll make it. Shouldn’t take too long.
“Better get back to work,” I mumble to myself and start slicing her neck.