Love is blind — whoever said this was a fucking idiot. My eyes almost fell out of their sockets when I first saw Mandy, Mandy Foster: a girl with curly hair, a cute smile, eyes as deep as an ocean, and a body that was way curvier than a road leading to a hill station. She never wore anything too revealing. How she leaves everything to our imagination was an art only a great poet should know. That’s what they did — leave the most beautiful part to our own imagination. I knew this because I am also a poet, just like Mandy. But, if there was an inter-college poetry competition going on somewhere and Mandy was participating in it, she’s gonna win it. Poetry was flowing inside her veins along with the blood. She was a poem, herself.
Mandy was wearing a red gown when I first saw her in a poetry competition. Boy, oh boy! Her smile felt like an injection filled with the serum of love shot right into my chest. I wanted to kiss her bad, real bad. It could be the side effect of that serum because, after a few weeks, all that physical attraction went away, and the only thing which remained inside my heart was that smile.
Love is not blind, but it is deaf as fuck! It was like my own vocal cords saying to me, “No! We are not gonna vibrate in front of her. No way, man, no way!”
So, I just smiled like a fucking creep whenever I saw her. I wrote several poems for her — one of them described her eyes and hair.
Your hair and your eyes,
Darling, that’s my heart’s paradise —
… something like that. It struck me magically when I found myself back in those good old days. It’s not like I couldn’t even try to pour my heart out in front of her. I remember the day when I dressed up as a perfect gentleman. I was going to say everything to her. And to add some more drama — I decided to recite my poetry. That day was pretty dramatic, too — the sun decided to hide behind the clouds, casting a magical shadow everywhere that covered the whole town. A poetic scene! I headed towards the rose garden, which was only a few blocks away from the boys’ hostel. A perfect place to steal a kiss from your girl or even a quick boob press if no one was looking at you. That day, some literary event was going on there. And that meant a strong possibility of finding Mandy. I can’t forget that day — I was standing in front of the rose garden. I remember a few voices coming back from the crowd.
“It’s that girl, Mandy,” someone said.
“They found her naked and decapitated. What the fuck!”
“What the fuck!”
“Oh, Jesus!”
“Hey! Let me take a look!”
That’s it — Mandy died horribly. Those moments still felt like thorns inside my heart, piercing it deeper and deeper with every single breath. Those who knew her were traumatized. Others were just angry because the whole campus was under surveillance. Final year and you can’t just fucking around with your friends. You can’t meet your girlfriend whenever you want. There were patrolling vehicles all around. They wanted it to be over, but it wasn’t. A few weeks later, another girl was found dead inside a chemistry lab. Naked and decapitated. A few weeks later, another one, and a few weeks later, another one.
Around final exams, the media gave a name to that killer — Hostel Butcher. It started to rule the front page of every newspaper. The killer used a butcher knife to decapitate all of them, including Mandy. He always left a red rose covered with the blood of the victim. I often wondered what the rose symbolizes. It must have something to say. A blood-covered rose sounds poetic to me!
That all happened six years ago.
I now work for a private firm, earning a decent salary. The poet inside me is still searching for inspiration, a poem. Six years! Hostel Butcher is still on the loose. That fucker killed twelve college girls. And now he is killing hookers. Six years!
“I am inside that red gown. Now what?” a voice came. “Are you gonna fuck or not? I don’t have all day.”
Steve stopped writing and turned to look at a beautiful woman in a red gown.
“Just give me a minute,” he said.
“Not more than a minute,” she replied and went inside the room.
Steve pushed his chair back and stood up. He opened the front drawer and picked up a large butcher knife from there — the kind you use to slaughter a pig. He hid the knife behind him and started to move toward the room in slow, quiet, predatory steps.
“Your curly hair and your eyes,
Darling! That’s my heart’s paradise.
Give me all your fears,
Give me all your cries,
Come with me, darling.
Let’s make a small home in those mighty skies.”
