Infinity Land by Laura A. Zink

The suspect scanned the interrogation room through a pair of thick-lensed, gold-wire aviator glasses. His wrists were cuffed, chained to a handle on a metal table. A detective sat opposite him. He wanted to know about the head in the refrigerator.


Infinity Land

…he had dreamt up a game involving stick men and spirals. The stick men…would be annihilated if they came too close to one another….The spirals were tightly drawn, intensely imagined symbols of descent, whose ultimate destination was a black hole. He called the game ‘Infinity Land’.

Brian Masters – The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer



The suspect scanned the interrogation room through a pair of thick-lensed, gold-wire aviator glasses. His wrists were cuffed, chained to a handle on a metal table. A detective sat opposite him. He wanted to know about the head in the refrigerator.

Thoughts clouded the suspect’s mind – a nightclub, multi-colored lights, men dancing, sleeping pills falling into fizzing drink…

“I don’t think that it’s in my best interest to talk to you about this.”

The detective dropped his head, stifling an exhausted chuckle.

“Look, Jeff. I’m a Catholic, ok? I’m not here to judge you. But we have to solve this problem.”

The thoughts returned, circling – naked men: bound in rope, in a bathtub, arms open, stomach split, viscera glistening. He couldn’t tell him. The detective would hate him. Theirs was the longest conversation he’d had in years.

A knock on the door. The detective left the room. Jeff looked at the table. An opaque reflection framed in handcuffs. Thoughts again. They struck like lightning bolts, piercing his mind, emitting swirls of…

The door opened. The detective was pale now, eyes ghosted, a thin veneer of sweat on his face. Something he heard out there had sickened him. Jeff knew it had to be about him.



Each detail wormed into his flesh.

“We’ve got to talk about the stuff in your apartment, Jeff.” 

They fell into his stomach… 

“My apartment?”

“Yes. Like the cooking pots, for starters.”

…the acid simmering… 

        “In my apartment?”

“And the bottles of muriatic acid.”

rolling to a boil… 

“The 57-gallon drum.”

…pressing against his lungs… 

“All the wires. The boxes labeled flammable, dangerous. They don’t want to move anything. They’re afraid something is going to explode.” 

…swelling into his chest, his throat…

“You mean, they’re searching my apartment?!?”

“Of course they are, Jeff. This is a homicide. They are going to search everything.”



Suicide watch. Guards lingering. Sneering. Flashlights shining in his face. Disembodied screams. Bed bugs sinking their jaws into his flesh.

Dragged from one room to another. Glaring lights. Detectives. Attorneys. Shrinks. They positioned their pens, waiting… 

Speak to us, Jeff.

He felt himself spinning, falling backwards.

How many victims, Jeff? 

He saw a cyclone of faces, flesh dissolving into skulls, skeletons falling one onto another. He couldn’t remember how many. Their names. Maybe the first one who caused the…

Why did you do it, Jeff? 

…nightmares. Relentless. Surging. Scorching his emotions, smothering his will, escaping in whirlwinds to deaden everything he touched.

They kept staring at him, their bodies leaning forward, the space collapsing, getting closer and closer, question after question throttling him, squeezing out his breath…

“All right,” he said. “But if I’m going to tell you about it, I might as well start from the beginning…”



Once upon a time, there was a boy who liked to play with sticks and bones. He rode his bike on back roads, searching for objects to add to his collection. He liked the road kill best, the bodies smashed and broken, the faces shocked in death. He took them to a secret shed in the woods and placed them in acid-filled jars. He watched the flesh simmer away, exposing the tiny bones underneath.

But the boy was lonely. He sat in the woods with a branch in his hand, drawing circles in the dirt. He spotted some boys playing tag among the trees. He approached them and asked them to come to his shed. They said yes. The boy led the way, fighting the urge to run and yell for them to hurry. He reached the shed and opened the creaky door. He held his hands at his sides. They pulsed in clenches. He watched the boys look at each other, at the buckets of acid, at the shelf with the jars. They stopped at the jars, staring. All the happiness left their faces. They called him a freak and ran away.

The boy was confused. He sat in the woods again, pondering, stripping leaves from branches and tossing them away with a decided flick. He looked up and saw some boys kicking piles of leaves. He dropped the branch and walked over. He asked them to be his friends. They called him a freak and ran away. The boy was very sad. But he approached other boys, smiling through his sadness. They ran away. He played the fool for others, and they ran away. He gave others his sweets, his toys, everything he ever had, and they always, always ran away.

That’s when the boy finally understood. There was something wrong with him. It was something visible and ugly, something from which he could never escape. He took big sticks to the woods and smacked the trees with all his might. Sounds like claps of thunder echoed in a fast running circle to the edge of the woods.

The boy was lonely.

He saw a jogger running through the woods. The boy hid behind a bush with a broken bat behind his back, waiting, waiting…

The boy was lonely.

He retreated into his mind, to a foggy landscape of barren roads and rules that were all his own. He found a hitchhiker there. He was lean and bare-chested, a presence without any words or any hate or any will. The boy took him by the hand, and they lay down together in the forest. The boy put his head on his chest, listening to the heartbeat, to the guts gurgling. The boy grazed his fingers over the gently protruding ribs. They lived together in the boy’s mind, in his private little world of secrets and silence and wisps of swirling gray.

But one day, the hitchhiker escaped…



You see him standing on Cleveland Massillon Road. He is shirtless in the bright summer sun, his torso lean, ribcage pressing against the flesh. You ask him to come home with you. He says yes. You sit on your bed beside him, twisting your fingers, your guts bubbling. He is exactly how you imagined him – long brown hair, hairless chest, smile revealing glaring white teeth. He is finally near you, FINALLY close enough where you can grab him and pull him close and…
He says he wants to leave.
A barbell cracks his skull.
He can’t leave. This is your fantasy. YOURS. You take off his shirt, let your hands search his chest, his stomach, his cock, yours. You stand, towering, filled with surge after surge of terrifying pleasure and pain and rage and need and fear because there is no running now, no escape, no leaving because this is your world, not his and not his body, this body, no, your body, a body so still and YOURS and IT IS YOURS and EVERY INCH IS YOURS and ALL IT EVER WAS IS YOURS and yours, yours, YOURS, ALL YOURS!
And then, you lie next to him. You put your head on his chest, listening for his heartbeat, waiting, waiting…
There is no sound. And the house is dark. And empty.
What have you done?
Thoughts swirl as you drag him into the crawl space and begin to saw and sever, head from neck, shoulder from arm, defleshing, snapping ligaments, shoving bones between sheets and smashing them, stuffing them into trash bags, taking them deep into the woods, scooping out handfuls, arms extended, spinning in circles, letting the pieces go, feeling the soft invisible release as the air catches them, and everything – all closeness, all control, despair, dreams, life itself – all just greasy white splinters slipping through your fingers…



Jeff adjusts his wrists in the handcuffs. He taps the table with his fingertips, then halts suddenly. He presses his lips together, as if considering something unfamiliar. His face is blank, but curious. His glasses reflect tiny streaks of light.

“You know,” he says, tapping his fingers again. “You are the closest friend I have had in my life.”

You look down and see his fingers inching closer, closer…



Zink, Laura A

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4 thoughts on “Infinity Land by Laura A. Zink

  1. Hi Laura,
    This touches on so many of Dahmer’s traits and beginnings.
    It is very well done and interesting. I think it was Dennis Nielson whose thoughts and reasoning was so similar to Dahmers. I’m not sure but I think he did a psychological test which came out that he was heterosexual!
    This is a fascination that we can never understand. The likes of Bundy and Gacy are now household names but who remembers the names of the victims? Maybe the saddest thing is that there are so many victims, it would be near impossible to remember.
    The structure was also very interesting and the information that you dealt with in the separate sections were skillfully tied together to give us a slight understanding of his twisted logic.


    • Channeling the sinister… traverse the heart of an abandoned soul.

      Soul searcher… Soul surfer.

      You found it’s truth like a beastial treasure hiding from the light.

      Glad you weren’t really, though you write grasping fully as if you were.



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