I was fifteen years old and just entering the world of tainted fantasies and dreams of carnage when I randomly stumbled onto The Collector by John Fowles at the public library. Another moment when everything seemed to line up perfectly.
The Collector, for you uneducated fucks, is about a man, Frederick Clegg, who collects butterflies as a hobby. They are his life. But eventually, they just aren't enough to quell his need to collect, to contain, to control. That's when he decides to take a girl he's been obsessed with for some time. After careful preparation, he drugs and kidnaps her before keeping her locked in his cellar in an attempt to make her fall in love with him.
The name of that girl? Miranda Grey.
My obsession with the book led me to research everything about it. I found that many serial killers were equally obsessed with the book. Some even carried a copy with them on their murderous conquests. Eventually, my research led me to the Holy Grail, the inspiration for my kill shed, and the reason EA Mercer is splattered on best-seller lists across the world—Leonard Lake and Charles Ng.
Lake and Ng saw the beauty in The Collector just as I do. They respected and appreciated the need, the yearning, the ultimate desire to control other people. They understood that, as a stronger, smarter human being, it is our prerogative—no, our duty—to rid the world of lesser humans. To take what we wish and do what we want with it. We are the masters. They are the slaves.
Lake and Ng built their own kill shed in the wooded mountains of California, where they tortured, raped, and killed women, all while taping their endeavors. Sometimes they killed whole families to get rid of witnesses. The tapes, I sadly have never been able to get my hands on. However, Ng drew a few of the murders in almost childlike fashion, with crayons and jagged, uneven lines. One of them depicted him placing a baby over a burning charcoal grill. Not my style, per se, but inspiring nonetheless!
Yes, Miranda Cross will do just fine. Now it's time to see if her story carries any weight. But if I have to guess, I imagine it will knock me right on my ass. The universe lines itself up for me sometimes, and when it does, nothing can stop me.
“Goner”—Twenty-One Pilots
Jesus Christ…
The pain radiates from my toe to my ankle, all the way to my shin.
"Fuck!" I hop on one foot, holding the other as I take several deep breaths in an attempt to make the pain subside. I glare at the corner of the dresser where I stubbed my toe. Dumb piece of fucking furniture.
I can't stop my body from shaking or myself from sweating. I've tried three times to put on eyeliner. But due to my unsteady hand, I've made a mess of it and had to wash off this ridiculous makeup twice. I've never been one to pile on cosmetics. I don't see the point. All of it is a lie. It's for vain girls with nothing inside their heads, for shallow people who only have their looks. Think about the damn word makeup. To make up for something you lack. Yet, here I sit in front of my mirror, attempting to draw a perfect thin black line around my round eyes.
And why?
Because in precisely two hours, twenty-seven minutes, and fifteen seconds—give or take a few—I'll be face-to-face with EA Mercer. Just the thought makes a large lump form in my throat. I swallow around it. Around it because it won't budge.
How many people get to have coffee with their idol, with the person who helped them ignore the shitty environment they grew up in? With the person who influenced their decision of what to do with their otherwise seemingly doomed existence?
Calm down, Miranda. Using my left hand, I steady my right and slowly, carefully—successfully—manage to line my eyes.
Once I finish applying my face, I step back and stare at my reflection. Pale skin. Hazel eyes framed in thick made-up lashes. As I stare at myself, I can't help but think that with all this shit on my face, I actually look like a 1940s pinup. Nice dress. New shoes I bought on credit. Full face of flawless makeup. I look completely put together, girly, and possibly sociable. Oh, how fake first impressions can be. But if there’s one thing I've learned in life, it's that impressions determine everything.
Really, looks determine everything. No one cares if you're smart or nice or caring. No. People care, first and foremost, about your appearance. And for the first time in my life, as I take in the stunning redhead in the mirror with polished nails and a trim waist, I believe that my looks might possibly help me.
Just before I turn to leave, I coat my full lips with a bright red lipstick that reminds me of Marilyn Monroe. After all, the one thing I've learned from reading each of Mr. Mercer's books a minimum of four times is that he has a penchant for an hourglass figure and a redhead with slut-red lips.
"Would you like more water?" the gangly waiter asks for the second time in five minutes.