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I think her name was Shelly.

Randy Medeiros

The Following Is The Written Confession Of,
Albert Hampton III.
It Was Found In A Safe Deposit Box
In The Bank Of Arizona
One Week After His Death.

    Although I am a few months past my 79th birthday, it was not until the resent weeks I felt my mind wandering away from me. They say the average male life expectancy is only 80 or 90 years, so I think it best I get this out of me before it is too late. I have managed to beat the mind warp of Alzheimer᾿s for this long, but soon it will consume me just as it had my Mother and Father. I may never have to deal with the dementia before my final day, and I could take this with me to my grave, but somehow I don᾿t think that would be fair.
    I was a well respected man in my time, have been to this day, and am not sorry to have that come to an end. The statute of limitations may protect me should I choose to release this now, but it is something I am not willing to risk. After my passing this will be found in my safe deposit box along with all things connected to my last will and testament. As I said before, it᾿s only fair.
    I should not be allowed to keep my respect in death. I was a monster. I am a monster. And, I am sorry.
    To my darling Andrea. I beg you, never stop loving me.

#

    It was shortly after the birth of my second son that I began visiting prostitutes. I was not proud of myself, but a man has urges. My wife᾿s sexual drive had dwindled down to nothing, and I saw no change in the future. I was wrong. I thought the two of us would never embrace each other again the way we had when we created our first two children together. It was stupid of me to think that way, I know that now. But that changes nothing.
    I thought I was smart in the beginning. Never taking a mistress, and only giving into my sin once a week. Faking extra work at the warehouse, setting up the surveillance system to record images of select areas so I could sneak into the back lot unseen started after the first week. Procuring street girls from different areas each week and never repeating an encounter inside of a month᾿s time to keep myself from being known as a regular came after the third.
    Everything I did worked out fine for the first few months. Around the third month is when things changed for me. The ratio of suitable girls died down. Although there were enough for me to keep my rotation moving, some of the girls available to fill the open slots were deemed unsuitable. Even for a monster like me.
    I found myself traveling beyond the state line to find new women. It lasted only two months because it became too risky. Although I protected my self from disease, that does not mean what I was doing was safe. Not by anyone᾿s standards. I found myself taking women to truck stops, hotels, dark alleys, and once behind a dumpster that belonged to a convenience store. The travel was also a risk. My wife may have one day noticed the extra mileage on my car, or extra gas usage.
    She never did, but she could have.
    If not for these things, I may have never met her. I could have avoided everything, including the years of sleepless nights and dreams of constant rain.
    No. That is untrue. I can not try to blame anything that happened on anyone except myself. To call what happened an action of circumstance, fate, coincidence, misadventure, bad luck, or anything else, is to lie to no one but myself. That is unnecessary, and foolish, therefore I refuse to do so. The lying comes to an end today.
    I spent a week away from my indulgences, but still continued the farce of late night work after realizing that out of state, was out of the question. I thought, at the time, that by taking a week off I could train myself to indulge in smaller quantities. Wean myself away from my problem. It would give me a better alibi should I need one, and give me a healthier variety of women.
    It was a ridicules logic, yet somehow still sound.
    That week I drove by some of the usual pick up spots, and found that I had three women to choose from on my next outing. In my mind, I had already chosen the girl, and I would pick her up on the following Thursday.
    This never happened. Although the girl I had pre-selected was available, I found myself driving past her that rainy Thursday. There was a new girl in the area.
    One I had never seen.
    One I could never imagine falling into that kind of lifestyle.
    One of such beauty she had no business being there. And in that moment, I had to have her.
    Because I was not recognized as a regular, there were no territorial arguments over the new girl obtaining me as a costumer. She saw me pull my car up to the curb where she was standing under an awning, and knew why I was there. As she approached, I was so stunned by her beauty that I made no protest to her following action. The image of her curves through my rain soaked windows was nothing in comparison to the one beside me when she got into my car.
    For a prostitute to enter a Jon᾿s vehicle without some sort of exchange is nearly unheard of. But that is what she did. And I could find no words to argue.
    I drove away.
    We spoke of price, and request, and she seemed to handle the negotiations as a natural. By my experience, she was very professional. With few words spoken, we both understood that the place was behind a warehouse, the act was sex, and the price was fifty dollars.
    I was very excited.
    Noticing my state, the girl giggled. I had no problem with her laughter. Like the rest of her, it was wonderful.
    We made small talk. As often as I could I stole glances at her body. She was perhaps five feet tall, slender, white, supple, and dripping wet. Her skin tight tee-shirt was transparent, and the bra beneath it as well. I was pretending not to notice these things when she commented on my wedding ring. She said I was a kind looking man, and polite as well. She said a man like me should be at home with his wife.
    What she said was not to be taken as an insult. I know that. Her tone had been polite, and she only meant to point out that a man such as myself should be content with his home life, and that in itself drove me to the edge.
    We had been pulling behind the warehouse at that particular moment, and it was too late for me to turn back. The sound of her innocence, her honesty, drove me mad. I had never been that turned on in my existence, and have not been since.
    Her eyes met mine and she saw the animal inside of me. I had yet to approach her, but she had already begun her protest. She said she had changed her mind, and was sorry. She said she could walk back to her spot. She said the rain didn᾿t bother her, and a man like me should go home. At those words, I lunged forward.
    She screamed and pleaded. I told her not to worry, I would be finished quick, and even pay her double. My pants were open, my underwear down. I reached for her panties beneath her denim skirt and that᾿s when she blurted out her age.
    She was crying, and she spoke quickly. I heard none of what she had to say until much later. She said she had just turned sixteen. She ran away from home, and had been making her way to Vegas by giving truck drivers and random motorists blow jobs and nothing more. She had never had sex before, not for a ride, not even for cash, and she only agreed to my offer because I looked kind. She said she wanted someone like myself to turn her into a professional before Vegas, but had now changed her mind and wanted out of the deal. At that, my arousal doubled.
    She fought hard at first. I was simply too strong for her. In the confines of my car I was able to pin her elbows with my own so she was never able to lay a hand on me. I curled both hands around her neck, and managed to thrust my penis through her underwear in my excitement. It took several thrusts to break the material of her panties, and I had finished once before ever having entered her, but still I continued until I reached a second climax. By that time, as short as it was, she was already dead.
    I believe it was shock that killed her, not strangulation. I also believe that she could have still been alive, or at least within the range of rescue, before I began the disposal. I may have been able to revive her had I tried. I may have crushed her wind pipe beyond repair.
    Some things will never be known.
    I panicked. There was an instant before I finished when I knew she was dead, and that᾿s what brought on my finale. I sat up and turned my body away, weeping hysterically. I cannot say for sure how much time passed, but eventually I was able to look back at the crime I had committed. Seeing her lifeless body, blood and semen running from her crotch down the seat and onto the carpet below, threw my body into a twist from my insides out. I managed to open my door before the vomiting began, but once it started it was hard to stop. I fell out of my car and into the rain in the process. My pants and underwear had come down to my ankles, and as I tried to stand they tripped me. I fell into my diluted puddle of bile and stayed there for a while, still weeping.
    I wish I could say falling into my own mess was a justified punishment, but nothing can absolve me from my following actions, as well as those that came before.
    I managed to get to my feet and dress myself. I stood there for a while in the rain, contemplating my next actions. I had to close the door of my car when I realized the dome light was on, illuminating my crime.
    A great deal of solutions poured through my mind in those moments, but only one of them stuck. The thought of calling the authorities came and went like a flash of lightning. Burying the corpse would be to easily traced. Large bodies of water were few and far between in my area. It seemed like the only logical option for me was to burn the body.
    My warehouse was well equipped for the job. It may still be, but I have not paid it a visit in many years. Once I was able to retire, finding excuses to stay away were very easy to come by.
    Although many would disbelieve the fact that a stone countertop business is ideal for body disposal, I can tell you different. Wet saws, grinders, torches for building a-frames, chemicals that burn just as hot as the flames that await me in damnation, slabs of stone that can withstand intense temperatures, industrial drainage, and traces of blood all over from work related accidents. The solution to my escaping prosecution was owned, and run, by me.
    I had no need to turn of the security system. I knew every nook and cranny that the cameras covered, and avoided them appropriately. There was a single angle that caught shadows and light from the fire, but I doctored them with single frame pictures the following day and that was that. My office was equipped with a roll out bed, shower, a refrigerator with snacks and booze, change of clothes, and completely independent from the security system.
    My alibi was simple. I spent the night in my office after a long night of paperwork. I looked ill the following day due to ιtoo many drinks while I workedι, which is also why I stayed at the office. ᾸDrinking and driving in the rain is hazardous,Ᾱ I said on the following day.
    In the far right corner of the building, one of the exhaust fans had been broken when my foreman crashed into it with our forklift. The fans are four by four, and start at the ground. This one was still intact, but the frame had separated from the building. I moved it aside, and brought the body in through there.
    I had parked my car beside the fan, and used the girl᾿s shirt to clean her and the seat before bringing her out of the rain. Inside, I hoisted her onto my shoulder, and brought her to the wet saw table.
    The saw hung from a boom arm, and at the time was manually operated. The table itself had a swivel beneath it to achieve specific angles for cutting, so I moved it aside to expose the drain.
    Hanging the girl by her ankles was not easy, but in my younger years, not impossible either. I hung her from the saw arm, and then opened her veins. I left her to hang and bleed while I made other preparations.
    Later, if any investigator came along with chemicals and lights like on television, I would tell them the tale of Bruce Campbell loosing an entire hand to that saw not six months prior.
    While she bled, I constructed a stone table using scrap slabs and a few a-frames. I drilled a hole in the table᾿s center because I did not know what would happen to her fat or other bodily fluids during the burning. It was a good call on my part. I set the table up beside one of the exhaust fans, and managed to run it without turning on all the electricity to the building. The localized supply of power was also enough for a hand held grinder.
    I returned to the wet saw, to see if her blood was drained.
    Seeing her pale, bloodless body hanging from the saw arm, did something to me. How I could ever be turned on by something that gruesome is beyond me, but it happened. I turned my back on the dead girl, and masturbated.
    After hosing down the wet saw area, I brought her body to the stone table, and turned it to ashes. I had to relight the fire several times, but after several hours, she was gone.
    I had set our clothing atop the fire, and had to grind her bones in the nude. I was erect while I worked, but did not indulge again.
    I collected the zippers and buttons from the leftovers, and threw them away along with her personal belongings (not many) later that week by wrapping them in a fast food bag, and tossing them into the waste bin outside of the restaurant.
    After collecting the ashes and bone dust in a spare bucket, I went to work scraping the fat residue from the table.
    I had another spare bucket beneath the hole in the stone table, and it had collected some evidence. It did not fill the bucket, but what had fallen in was a mixture of hot liquid, ash, and unidentifiable chunks of the girl.
    I cleaned the stone table as best I could, but could not hide the fact that it had been used to burn something for a long period of time. I broke it into tiny pieces, and added it to the scrap pile that was ready to be removed the following day. The ashes and bone went into random places in the dust pile that was also to be removed on the same day.
    All that remained was a shower, and the bucket from beneath the table. I disposed of the buckets content the only way I knew how.
    I have never been able to eat chili since.
    After putting everything back in its place, I went to my office, showered, wept, and had a few drinks before finally falling asleep.
    I dreamt of a world of rain. It is the only nightmare I have ever had that can be connected to that night. The water in the streets collects and flows. The news shows unstoppable rain storms all over the world with no sign of coming to an end. It᾿s such a beautiful nightmare. I don᾿t know if it will ever stop raining.
    No one ever came looking for the girl. I could have buried her out back, and none would have been the wiser. I could have buried her out back, and left something for her family to morn.
    I think her name was Shelly.

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