Alexander's hands are trembling.
Kneeling, he is breathing heavily. Sweat is running down his face and body. Ahead of him, between his arms, he sees the silhouette of a motionless female body. Tears stream down his cheeks, Alexander lets out a roar and curls up on the floor.
Alexander's room is cold and dead silent. No one hears his cry, just as no one had heard the screams of the girl lying on the bed when Alexander was killing her. When he grabbed her, begging her to stay and not leave, and when he closed his hands around her fragile neck. He hadn't wanted this, he really hadn't!
The bedroom door opened, and the click of heels on exquisitely polished men's shoes ring out. The cold air and the murderer's sobbing were interrupted by a smug chuckle:
"Really didn't want to? My friend, this is the fourth time already!"
Alexander pays no attention to the uninvited guest. Earlier, he had outright kicked him out of the room, forbidding him to enter!
"Yes, yes, this time you were absolutely sure you wouldn't need my help and that you would have everything under control! Ah, Alex, Alex… You know how sad it was listening to that melodrama from behind the door?"
Alexander raised his eyes. A handsome man had parked himself on the desk in front of him, one leg crossed over the other. Wrapping his arms around his knee, he smiled:
"Pushing fifty, you really should have figured out by now that with your total lack of self-discipline—and of a sound mind, for that matter — you can't handle matters this delicate without me!"
"Everything would've been fine," Alexander said, looking at the smiling face. At first glance, this man was his carbon copy, but there were far too many differences. Alexander was an ordinary middle‑aged man: disheveled hair, fleshy arms, a slight paunch, regular clothes. The man on the desk, howeber, looked like he'd stepped out of a mobile carrier commercial: a toned physique, sharp cheekbones in a thin, clean‑shaven face, a tailored light‑grey three‑piece suit. His hair was slicked back, and his shoes shone.
"And not such a stupid name as yours, either. Edgar sounds every bit as elegant as I look!"
And the main thing Alexander envied him for now was that Edgar wasn't real. He was his imaginary friend. A tulpa, as they sometimes call them. Meaning he won't have to face the consequences for what has just happened.
"How's that, I won't? If it weren't for my guidance, you'd have landed behind bars after your very first murder! Maybe you're dying to end up there, but that place is definitely not for me!"
Edgar jumped down from the table and walked over to Alexander.
"Come on, get up, enough whining."
Alexander rises onto his knees. Suddenly, Edgar's slender, refined fingers grab his chin, forcing his face up. Looking straight into his eyes from a distance where one could hear his nonexistent breathing, Edgar says quietly:
"You know, you just can't manage things with these girls, darling. That perfect image you're chasing—it's not for you. Bu-ut, who knows… Maybe some other perfect version might pay attention to such a sloppy little maniac? Even if that ideal exists only in one foolish head…"
Alexander brushes away the apparition and tries to stand. Edgar chuckles, stepping back:
"We'll get rid of this body too. After all, who else is going to pull you out of a mess if not me? When will you get that through your head, darling?"
***
Late in the evening, Alexander is driving along a suburban highway. In the trunk, wrapped in trash bags, lies the dismembered body. Next to Alexander, on the empty passenger seat, sits Edgar:
"What is it that draws you so much to this type? Long black hair, skinny build, tall. If you ask me, a beauty should have something you can actually grab onto! And light hair looks prettier or even more noble! But you're short-circuited on this, as if you saw some kind of scarecrow mannequin as a child and it burned into your brain for life!
"Oh, screw you!" Alexander starts cursing. By now he feels calmer and more composed, only endlessly more exhausted. Heavy lids weigh down his tear-reddened eyes, but he has to keep watching the road.
"You look like a fag tourself, not a single normal woman would ever give you a second glance!"
"Ha‑ha! Oh, come on, I'm the spitting image of a heart‑throb, they'd all be throwing themselves at me."
"It's just…" Alexander begins quietly, having calmed down, "if she — the one before you — hadn't caused so many problems… none of this nightmare wouldn have happened. Why is it that when that image took shape in reality, it suddenly turned into some kind of horror? She was trying to scare me! Why did she run away and refuse to talk to me… Maybe somewhere deep in my head, she is still…"
Edgar's palm appears in front of Alexander's face. Snapping his fingers before his eyes. His expression is serious:
"Hey! Forget that imaginary bitch who didn't even have the brains for a straightforward conversation! You need to firmly decide for yourself that you are totally done with her!"
To drown out the pesky voice in his head, Alexander tells his smartphone to put on some road‑trip playlist. Upbeat music from the first half of the 21st century starts playing in the car. come to think of it, the 22nd century is just around the corner, yet fundamentally, some things don't seem to have changed since his childhood. Back then, 43 years ago, his parents had found themselves quite a pastime during the pandemic.
For a while they drive in silence with the music on, both lost in thought. Edgar runs a hand through his hair and smiles:
"But there is one thing I must admit about your taste: at least your little darlings don't weigh much — they're easier to hide. Maybe that's the real reason you set your sights on them?"
Alexander sighs heavily. He reaches to turn the music up, but Edgar stops him:
"This spot will do. Pull the car over."
The car rolls onto the shoulder and stops. The driver gets out, followed by his passenger. Walking back to the trunk, they both check their surroundings.
"What about the phone?"
"Right now you take it and smash it to splinters. Put it in a separate bag, and we'll bury it a hundred meters away from the body."
"Last time we tossed it in the river…"
"Do you want to establish your own serial killer signature now? Or are you planning to catch crayfish with them? Grab the body, grab the shovel, and let's go."
Alexander puts the phone in a bag, tosses it onto the asphalt, and starts pounding it with the shovel handle. A minute later he slips it into his pocket and glances around one last time. Opening the trunk, he hoists the heavy trash bag over his shoulder and heads into the forest.
That evening, they didn't run into any new problems.