Fan Fiction ❯ Checkmate ❯ Untouchable ( Chapter 5 )

I hate being touched. It doesn't matter if it's inanimate or possessing the quality of movement, I don't like it when anything touches me. Maybe it's because my mother barely held me as a baby. She never comforted me at all when anything happened, through my whole life. I've never really been "hugged."

I never let my friends touch me, ever. Of course, none of my "friends" were ever touchy-feely, so it didn't matter. And in school, I tried to avoid bumping into people, which, most of the time, didn't work.

Some of my teachers were kind of touchy, though, and sometimes I couldn't stop them from touching me. Usually, if they tried, I'd scream. Everyone thought I was weird when I did that, but teachers knew not to touch me after awhile.

The one and only boyfriend that I ever had liked to touch me, also. He used to always try to put his arms around me and do other stuff that I didn't like, and I'd always push him away. He'd usually ask why I did that, and I'll tell him I didn't like to be touched. He'd usually laugh.

Once, though, he got kind of mad when I wouldn't let him "hug" me. When I pushed him away, he asked, "What's your problem? All I want to do it hug you." I just shook my head, and dodged his arms once more. He said something else then, and I retorted, and it somehow led to him saying, "Bite me." So that's what I did. I bit him. He broke up with me while wrapping his hand in his shirt.

I've never really understood why anyone wants a "partner," or to be a "couple." All that I think of is someone who always wants to know my thoughts, and to touch me. I can't stand that thought. I hate it so much. I've never really understood people, of course. That's one of the reasons why I kill them. They're useless.

Many of my victims never had the chance to touch me. I usually pin them to their beds with knives, or tie them up if they're stupid enough. I have to touch them, but that's not like them touching me. In my opinion, I believe that a person has to touch another with their hand, so many victims never had that chance.

Of course, there were some who did touch me. One of my victims was an alcoholic, and always came home drunk. He was another easy target. The night I killed him, he was drunk on his ass. He was about ready to pass out when I attacked. I really didn't need to do much of anything, though, since if he did pass out, he would have choked on his own vomit. But I killed him myself.

I came into his house shortly after he stumbled in. He somehow drove home without killing himself and someone else. I was glad because of this, for then I wouldn't be allowed the joy of killing him myself. And if he did kill another person, they could have been a future victim. And that would have made me mad, if I'd have known it.

Anyway, I went into the house and found him lying on his couch. He looked startled that I was there, but stood up shakily, and walked toward me. He was trying to say something to me as he did this, but I couldn't understand it, because his words were so slurred together, and he wasn't talking very loudly.

He finally made it over to where I was standing, and then put his arms around me. He began to lean toward me, as though he was trying to kiss me, but I was already struggling under him. He smelled terrible, and slightly cold. And, of course, I hate to be touched. I don't know if he thought I was a prostitute that he had brought to his house and simply forgotten about, or if he was just too drunk he didn't even know where he was and what he was doing. Either way, I wanted him off of me.

I finally pushed him away, and he fell to the floor. I pounced on him then, securing his wrists to the floor with two knives. He really didn't seem to know that I was doing this. He seemed terribly confused.

After a few minutes of just being held to the floor, he looked like he was about ready to vomit. I hadn't really done anything to him yet other than making sure his wrists were held fast to the floor. I stepped back just before the vomit literally flew. Finally, when he stopped puking, I stepped closer to him. He was covered in his own vomit, and the room reeked of it.

Instead of making him die slowly and painfully, I simply put a knife through his throat, and left, for I felt like I was about ready to vomit myself. The smell was simply disgusting. I didn't really bother taking my knives, or to leave my signature, but the police knew it was me. They still haven't captured me, though. Stupid bastards.

Since then, though, I've tried to make sure that my victims wouldn't touch me, but sometimes it didn't work. Sometimes my victims have managed to touch me. They did this by pulling their wrists from the floor, somehow. Most of them would try to grab for me, as if they could ever catch me, others reached for some object to swing at me, and even more just flailed.

People have never understood why I hate to be touched. My victims don't know that I don't like to be touched, but sometimes I think they figure it out. Some people aren't stupid, but most are. If they weren't stupid, so you think that I'd still be "on the loose?" Of course not. I laugh at you if you think that stupid people could catch me. Ha ha.

A/N: Stupid ending, I know. I'm not sure whether I like this chapter or not. Oh, well. There will be at least two more chapters after this, then a conclusion, and a possible epilogue.

I'm shivering so badly right now that I can barely type. It's so cold here. *shiver* I hate cold weather.

Not sure when the next chapter will get up. I have to start reading The Turner Diaries for a history project, and I want to finish The Catcher in the Rye sometime soon, and I've got many other books that I'd like to read soon, so the chapter might not be posted for a while. Whenever I get inspiration, that's all I can say. Please review. Thanks to those who have reviewed already!