Transference

          Patricia shoved the man she had kidnapped down her basement stairs and quickly locked the steel door behind her. Her victim, a man of possibly Italian descent in his late thirties just barely managed to save from breaking his neck as he lurched and stumbled down to the concrete floor. Patricia had forced him into silence shortly after taking him - posing as a distressed motorist near his office - and was thus spared any annoying pleas for mercy. Instead, the man quickly scrambled into the furthest corner of the slightly dusty room, and stared at Patricia with wide eyes and terrified mien.
          Trish glared at him. She could feel a seething anger raging within her, and she hoped this would exorcise it.
          "Let's get one thing clear now." She told him bluntly, closing the distance between them, pushing him further into the corner. "This isn't your fault. Don't blame yourself for this. Don't blame god, or fate or mommy either." She paused for a moment, watching the rapid pulse in his throat. "Genetics, maybe," she admitted as an afterthought, "But the one who you should be blaming for this is me, alright? Everything that has happened, and is about to happen, is my fault."
          She could feel the man begin to shake under her. She nodded, as if that was an adequate answer.
          Patricia tried to center herself. Everything was so sharply defined, now, in contrast to the last time she had butchered somebody in her favorite workroom. Even the stinking fear of the man she held seemed different, more complex. Patricia was finding it easy to be distracted by tiny details that she would have ignored before and the only thing that kept her focused was that simmering rage.
          She took a deep breath, marshaled her thoughts. "I wanted to go about this properly, to take you apart methodically, like I did last time-" Her victim squirmed wildly at that. Patricia held him still with a grip that she knew would leave bruises. "None of that. I'm stronger than I look." She warned him. Her grip on his left arm tightened further to just short of the breaking point. Her captive groaned, teeth clenched against the admission.
          "So brave." Patricia commented lightly. Her expression darkened. "I can break your arm like a breadstick and I don't recommend rushing the evening."
          A rustling noise from far end of the room. Patricia glanced around, twisting awkwardly as she didn't want to lose her grip. There was no-one else visible, but Patricia couldn't help wondering if she would be hearing that familiar voice again tonight. In some way, she hoped so. She hoped that he could see what she was doing, what he had driven her to.
          Turning back to the sweating man, she whispered. "I wanted it to be just like last time, but that's wrong, that won't work." The words tumbled out of her. "You'll break too easily and, besides, you're just an outlet."
          Patricia smiled, her fangs showing. "And dinner, of course." With a convulsive movement, she made good on her claim of breaking his arm. "And the meat is always better for a little tenderizing…"

          An hour later, Trish looked down at the body on the floor. It was still recognizable - unusual for most of her victims - but the bruises and bloody tears through flesh and clothing reduced him to yet another pile of blood-soaked rags on the floor. Patricia, for once had not employed her usual neatness in killing. Her victim's blood was smeared across her clothes and hands, but mostly her face. She sighed and picked a splinter of bone from her teeth. "Well, that did nothing for me." She muttered. "Maybe next time..."

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