Serial Saturday: On The Road Again by JR Grues, Part 1

On The Road Again: Part One

Lucky me, what have I stumbled across? “Welcome to the cabin getaway…” The rustic sign with thick black letters may have well read “violence is welcomed!” Secluded, contained, and such a classic setting. A great opportunity awaits me, and the timing is perfect. It has been a long and tiresome trek across these hot Tennessee mountains. I had only a few fun experiences on my journey through this state. A couple of well-meaning citizens offered me rides from here and there. Of course, traveling on those sketchy highways, you are bound to run into some not so God-fearing types. I received a couple of solicitations to perform fellatio on some tough-knuckled truck drivers. Those, of course, are the main demographic willing to pick up a fresh-faced sixteen-year-old hitchhiker. They assume I am just another runaway trying to escape a troubled home situation. I play into the stereotype just long enough. They ask me about my life: where I’m going and where I’ve been. I act interested in what they do and where they are heading. I even pretend to be interested in their families. There is always a wife and kids waiting for them to get home from their long week on the road. This is how the conversation goes until that hint—the unbuckling of the seat belt and thrust of the hip to insinuate this ride isn’t free. If only their families knew of their depravities. 

Those types are my favorite. They honestly believe they are doing me a favor by helping some poor teenager escape an abusive father or overbearing mother. I always wish I told them the truth before they unzip their pants and close their eyes. “My parents are dead. I slit my mother’s throat, and bashed in my father’s head.” I never get the words out in time. Instead, just a quick stab to their jugular vein, and I rid this Earth of another scum. I grab my bag, and I am off on the road again. I tried to drive one of their trucks one time, but I didn’t make it too far. I didn’t know how to work the shift. 

A few genuine people pick me up. Those are the ones with whom I find it harder to deal. Putting on a nice face for nice people has always been something with which I’ve struggled. I keep my smile wide and conversation pleasant. I play with their kids in the back seat and try my hardest to suppress the urge to take their child’s head and bash it against the window, stab the mother in the passenger seat, and then strangle the father with his own seat belt until we all crash and die in a fiery blaze. 

For the most part, I let the innocent families along my journey remain alive. Their deaths will attract too much attention, and I’m looking for that perfect scene. It’s a constant search for a perfect night, like the plot of my favorite pictures—The Terrifier, Friday the 13th, and the classic The Strangers. I like to refer to myself as a SIN-efile. I love the bloody stuff. At a young age I realized it wasn’t real, and that upset me to no end. 

My interactions with the prey should have been the first red flag to my parents. We could never keep a pet for too long. After two cats, a dog, some fish, and a bird, we no longer had any pets in the house. My older sister and younger brother became very frightened by the time I decided to move on. It will be two years in a month since I was last home. My older sister was taking a bath when I ended my parent’s miserable lives. She had her headphones on, listening to a vintage CD player. She heard nothing and didn’t notice me standing over her watching her naked body, until it was too late. She was a lot weaker than I thought she would be, I was prepared for more of a struggle as I held her under the soapy water. I left my younger brother alive. He was not home when I committed my cleanse. There was no other reason I let him live. My urge trumped my preparedness. I emptied the family safe of cash, packed what I needed, and hit the road. I kept up with the articles and news reports on my family’s demise until I needed to rid myself of smart phones. The last I checked, they never actually listed me as a suspect. I was just reported as missing. I’m sure they wised up by now. I suppose I’m no longer placed on the milk cartons, but now on the wanted posters. Good luck to them. Along my travels, I’ve cut and dyed my hair more than a few times. I also broke my nose once or twice along with the burning of my fingertips on a cast iron skillet I found in a couple’s unlocked car. I try not to stay in the same area for more than two days. I stay long enough to get my fix, rest, and then I am on the road again. They probably want to know why I did it, but I don’t have an interesting reason. Maybe, I just wanted to be free.

It’s been a pretty boring couple of weeks. I haven’t had a victim in a while. Nothing excited me. I thought I had something good, about a month back, when I ran into another traveler at a truck stop. I kept thinking, “Maybe he’s just like me.” That would be intriguing—two serial killers facing off for survival of the fittest. Who will be the chosen one to carry on, to continue the devil’s business? Of course, he was just a wandering loser, running away for a fresh start. The conversation became boring, so I stabbed him in the chest ten times and stole his socks. He had great socks. City after city, ride after ride, the urge never came over me. Nothing gave me the desire or the thrill. That was until I came across this wonderful place. The cabin getaway, oh what awaits you.