I Can Barely Breathe

August Verona

Copyright © 2015 August Verona

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Getting into the mind of a serial killer is no small
task. I had to toss compassion, the value of human life and my
conscience aside to explore the secrets of a sex-crazed psychopath.
That being said, reader beware… what lies beyond the prologue is
dark and disturbing, bloody, ruthless and extremely sexually
graphic. If you can’t handle graphic content, go no further. To
those who feel they can, good luck and enjoy.

-August Verona

In fiction, there are many different versions of
planet Earth. This is merely one of them. The events in this story
take place in a parallel world that is much like our own, but also
very different.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One: Seven Years Later

Chapter Two: Duty Calls

Chapter Three: Nine Thirty-Two

Chapter Four: Push

Chapter Five: Almost Like Magic

Chapter Six: A Day at the Fair

Chapter Seven: We’re Not Finished

Chapter Eight: Just in Time

Chapter Nine: What Are the Odds?

Chapter Ten: Wake Up

Chapter Eleven: Heaven

Chapter Twelve: What We Accomplished

Chapter Thirteen: I Never Would Have Guessed

Chapter Fourteen: Scars

Chapter Fifteen: What I’ve Always Wanted

Chapter Sixteen: The Truth Hurts

Chapter Seventeen: A Last Letter Home

About The Writer

The sun had already disappeared over the
horizon, leaving the small Colorado town of Sorrow’s Sky covered in
late evening shadows. What remained of the sunset diminished in a
slew of purples, pinks and yellows. It was the time of day any
photographer or painter would appreciate; the natural beauty of
sunlight hitting the atmosphere at just the right angle could take
anyone’s breath and make it short for a time.

Due to the surface temperature being in the
midsixties, many folks were out enjoying the scenic view. So when
the triangular-shaped lights appeared over the south side of town,
it wasn’t long before phones started ringing.

The lights seemed to visit the small
community a few evenings every month. They would move intelligently
and maneuver in ways that defied belief.

The townspeople watched as the triangular
craft’s lights switched from a bright white to a beautiful dark
blue. It kept its distance, never flying over any buildings, only
the forest. It danced in the sky for thirty-five minutes. Most of
the viewers naively thought it was putting on a show for them and
saying hello. Very few, if any, entertained the notion that
something far more sinister was happening. Either way, the people
of Sorrow’s Sky had been chosen.

The futuristic flying machine eventually
stopped in midair, sputtered a bit from side to side and then,
accompanied by the gasps from the townspeople, quickly fell to
Earth. There was no explosion, no bright flash of light, only the
sound of branches breaking as it collapsed through the trees and
then a hard thud once it hit the dirt.

By the time the police and military arrived
at the crash site, the inhabitants of the spaceship were gone. No
traces of blood were found, only an empty shell with loads of
technological devices that were clearly not from planet Earth.

Military scientists worked day and night to
reverse engineer not only the craft but the communication systems,
tablets, weapons, computers and tools. The US government never had
a secret agenda. Their plan was to eventually share the technology
with the entire world, making one hell of a profit and transforming
the world into a better place at the same time. Once the work was
completed, the new gear was marketed and sold to Colorado
residents, then soon nationwide.

The beings were never found.

October 12, 1962. Carver Thorton, a
twenty-seven-year-old man who spent his whole life in Sorrow’s Sky,
gripped the steering wheel of his hardtop ’57 Chevy. She was cherry
red, in used condition. The interior looked newer than the
exterior, due to the fact that she had seen her fair share of
weather. Carver had debated buying the car in the first place,
considering he didn’t have a garage to store her in, but, in the
end, he and the car seemed to be a perfect match.

Though the highway was lonely, Carver always
felt a rush of relief after leaving the nearby big city of Cosmos,
Colorado. It was eight miles northeast of Sorrow’s Sky, just past
the large cemetery that lay between the two settlements. He checked
his reflection in the rearview mirror, looking for scratches. His
blue eyes searched his clear skin to find he was not injured. The
five o’clock shadow on his face appeared darker by the minute,
despite the fact it was three in the afternoon.

Women always found him attractive, which, in
turn, never really worked out too well for them. Carver had a
well-defined jawline; he was tall with short brown hair under his
black fedora. Folks always said he looked good in the newest
fashion trends. He was blessed, some might say, intellectually and
physically.

“The devil in a Sunday suit” was how he
would secretly describe himself. He knew better than anyone that
something had always been off in his mind, but he was very good at
hiding it. No one knew the real Carver Thorton but Carver Thorton
himself.

His fingers loosened his tie and unbuttoned
the collar of his white shirt. His suit jacket was laid neatly over
the back of the passenger seat. Carver tapped out a cigarette from
a soft pack of Morleys and placed it between his lips, unlit.

As he entered Sorrow’s Sky, his tires kicked
up dust from the dirt road. The town council never had a reason to
pave them; with only five thousand residents populating the burg,
it was never really high on the to-do list. The buildings were
aged; storefront windows were covered in the same dust, and the
town had an overall gothic feel, with a rich history of life, love
and death to go with it.

Carver cracked his window via the hand
crank, just as he heard three loud bangs coming from inside the
trunk. He could feel the cool October breeze, and he breathed it
in, then lit his smoke. The moon was high over the Victorian houses
and modernized castles, directly above the old clock tower—the
tallest man-made structure from here to Cosmos.

Sorrow’s Sky had a few wheat fields; a few
parks with green grass, tall trees and benches; lots of houses—big
and small—to accommodate the population; and, in most places, its
alleyways between the homes were paved with bricks. Police
headquarters was a building shared with their neighbors, the
firefighters, whose building shared a wall with the town’s bank.
Carver sped past just in time to see the bank manager locking up
for the night and a few officers outside having a smoke break.

Three more bangs on the trunk.

Carver checked his rearview mirror. “Bit of
a fighter.” He smiled.

As he turned onto his road and saw his house
up ahead, he felt a small sensation of adrenaline. After all, the
fun always began once he was safely inside. The single-story
redbrick home had been in his family for generations. It had large
windows, red shingles, two brick chimneys on opposite sides and sat
on a large property of green grass with a red barn hiding at the
edge of his land. Giant oak trees sprinkled their acorns throughout
the property, a healthy food source for all the squirrels.

He pulled a ways past his driveway and then
put the car in Reverse, backed in and put it in Park. He pulled the
keys from the ignition and climbed out, walked to the trunk and
popped it open. She was beautiful. Her hair was long and blonde,
her eyes a pale green. A strip of duct tape covered her lips, and
her hands were bound behind her with a black zip tie. She couldn’t
have been any older than nineteen.

Carver never took from Sorrow’s Sky; he went
to Cosmos to hunt. He had more of a selection there anyway, and he
didn’t need the police snooping around his town. He liked the
pretty girls, young, no older than twenty-five… usually. And, of
course, the most important detail: his victims had to be in a dress
or skirt. He found it funny really. Everyone was so scared of the
serial killer who plagued the area, and all they had to do to
protect themselves was put on a pair of jeans.

Carver had snatched the girl just outside of
Cosmos Community College. He had parked near a shaded area, then
opened his trunk, smooth talked the pretty girl into approaching
his car—this was where his good looks come into play—then threw her
in and taped her mouth and tied her hands. It was always easy. He
was good at it.

Feeling the cold chill in the air and
staring down at his prize, he watched a tear roll along her cheek.
Her dress was a bright yellow and was short enough to show off her
smooth thighs and her perfect backside. He took a few steps toward
his shaded mahogany front door and unlocked it, keeping an eye on
the trunk most of the time. He pushed open the door and got a fresh
scent of his living room. That familiar rush of air always felt
like home.

As quick as he could, he grabbed the girl,
lifted her up and discretely carried her through the threshold,
just like a newly married couple… or at least close enough.

Carver set her down and pushed her forward,
and she stood on shaky legs. He closed the front door while still
maintaining a firm grip on one of her forearms. She looked around
frantically, searching for a place to run.

It was nice inside, homey. The living room
was connected to the dining room; the two rooms came together to
form an L shape. In the living room, two matching tan chairs
complemented the couch. A glass coffee table held some magazines,
coasters and a half-finished puzzle; the image was shaping up to be
a roller coaster speeding through the top of its loop. On the wall
in front of the couch was a large picture window, covered by dark
curtains. To the back of the room, a carpeted hallway led to three
closed doors.

The blonde looked to her left and scanned
the dining room.

A large wooden table and chairs filled that
room, with a blue pot as its centerpiece, filled with a
green-leafed plant; it looked watered, cared for.

As Carver forced the girl forward, she
arched her neck to get a peek at the nearby kitchen, probably
looking for a weapon. He guided her quickly through the room and
down the hall. He chose the first of the three closed doors and
scooted her inside.

The room was clean. White curtains that let
in a healthy amount of light covered the windows. The floor was red
tile. The only object in the room was an odd wooden stand. Carver
pulled a knife from his pocket and clicked it open. She squealed a
bit, staring at its sharp serrated blade. He turned her to cut the
zip tie, freeing her hands from behind her back, then pivoted her
around again, pulled out a new zip tie and bound them in front of
her, to her dismay.

He walked her backward—noticing her large
breasts jiggling with every step—and pushed her up against the
stand. It had two thick, long wooden prongs that jetted out, a
woman’s shoulder width apart. He adjusted their height and
positioned her underarms over them; it was designed to hold her up
during loss of consciousness, taking advantage of the zip tie that
held her wrists together. Without it, the feat would not be
possible.

The girl begged and pleaded through the tape
over her mouth. Carver ignored her cries. He was ready. He stepped
back and looked at her, admiring her natural beauty. His fingers
touched her just above her right knee and slid up her smooth thigh,
then pulled down her panties, causing her to cry some more. Carver
assumed correctly that she was the type of girl who constantly got
noticed. She was the beautiful blonde who everyone paused for when
she entered a room, even the women.