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The inner depths of humanity are unknown to some. This short story dives into the sick mind of a murderer, rapist and criminal: showing his most potent instincts as they occur.

Submitted:Apr 22, 2007    Reads: 539    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   


by Jamie McPherson

As I glared over the sun-kissed ocean I began to wonder what it was that I may have done that could be deemed so incredibly inhuman. I couldn't digest the accusations being thrown my way, I was merely a boy looking for love, in love, who wanted to have that love returned with the woman whom I thought was the one for me. Obviously not. I sat isolated in my cage, like an animal and began to construct an answer. I began to lay a wall of hope, but unfortunately I could find no bricks. What did all this mean? Who was I, or rather who did I become? It's question I asked myself repeatedly but unfortunately, as hard as I waited nothing or no-one delivered an answer.

I sat in my state of uncertainity, bewilderment and resentment for no less than 6 hours. My hair was dry with the constant sweep of hot hair blowing around me; my eyes were coated with a red glaze which made it hard, even impossible for me to see six feet infront of me. The only feet I could see were the two curled up in front of me, perished in the damp dirt beneath me. The sun may have conveyed a glimmer of hope but before I had taken the time to admire it's blinding glow, it had disappeared into the horizon though the bars of my cage. I was alone.

* * * * *

No matter what they might tell you, I am never one to be messed with. Some tell you that I am weak, others tell you that I cannot 'batter fish', but in reality I am mental. If you mess with me, which you won't, you will surely regret it. Make no mistake about my power. If it's me and you, then I'm going to win, there's no way you could possibly defeat me. Consider it like this, you go into a bank, who is in charge of your money? You or the banker? Well I am the banker, only I'm not in charge of your money, I'm in charge of you. I decide what the score is, and you do not question my decision. You do not breach my authority, and IF you do, like I said, you will regret it. Not only will you live to regret your action but you will pay for it, I will make you pay for your mistake.

* * * * *

It was a Saturday morning, and as usual I had no choice but to take the bus to work. I'd have cycled but of course after a Friday night, a usual Friday night, it just isn't sensible. Of course, the majority of people can go out and enjoy themselves on a Friday night, keep out of trouble, come home and cycle to work on a Saturday morning; but for me, that would be unreasonable. No, you see, I had devised a kind of routine, basically I never cycled to work on a Saturday morning, I took the bus. So, there I was standing patiently at the busstop, all dolled up in my new black suit (tailor-made I must add), my new leather shoes, and my little hatch briefcase. My hair was like a certain Mr. Elvis, glued in place with some trusty wax. My specs were shiney clean and my teeth gleemed. I was a piece of work, I must admit. It was all part of the Saturday morning routine you see. I had to do myself up if I was going to disguise my guilty criminality. My fiendish and evil Friday night activities in which I take a trip to the kids playground, eye up my young and sweet victim, follow them home, kidnap them at knifepoint screaming: "I'll fucking slice you and your family into pieces", and take them home, to my bloody, death-ridden, decomposing, twisted, damp and surgical flat. My flat. The place I have lived since my aunt died, well, since she was killed, slaughtered, sliced into pieces.

The bus was late and I had been waiting for longer than usual; much longer, what was going on? My routine was being jeopardised, this was not sensible. This never happened. I wasn't safe. I was losing my patience, rapidly. I must have checked the timetable near ten times before I eventually decided to go home. I'd phone in sick. They wouldn't bother, I mean, I'm never sick. I'm the most active, most healthiest boy you're ever going to meet. I'm a real piece of work. Call me a masterpiece if you like. Although, I was pretty anxious about my bus, I felt defeated, and I didn't like to be defeated. Where had my bus got to? Well, I put it out of my head and stormed home, half in awe of my fabulous self, half devastated about breaching my routine.

* * * * *

It was time for a bath. I scooped her up into both of my arms, a dead-weight she was, and bundled her into the bath. I nearly slipped on the pool of blood I had conveniently 'shed' from her last night, but I was careful enough to step round it. So I bundled her into the bath. I watched in excitement as she slid down the bathtub, leaving her smudge of blood down the tiles. I was a bit worried, I couldn't remember if I had paid the hot-water bill, it took me near 4 minutes to remember whether or not I had paid that bill before I hammered on the cold tap. As the cold water pierced her naked, red body, I was disappointed that the gruesome smell of blood was slowly drifting away, disapperaing into a world known as "reality". Soon, the bath was full, she lay there bobbing around in a pool of her own cold blood, with the added advantage of cold water. I peeled off my wet shirt, slightly stained by the girl's blood, by the fluid I had 'shed' from her last night. I whipped off my black trousers, then underpants, socks and vest before dipping myself into the bath beside her.

I was just about to squeeze the remaining blood from her finger when I heard an unusual and somewhat unwanted knock at the door. Yet again, a further breach of my routine. I would not leave my girl just for the sake of answering the door. I would remain right there, beside her. Unfortunately my ignorance didn't pay off, again, a knock at the door, this time louder and more demanding. I was devastated. I pulled a towel round my waist, shielding my pride, and wiped the excess blood from my face and shoulders. I made for the front door, not bothering to close the bathroom door behind me.

* * * * *

I finally realised there was no hope, every inch of sun was merely a way of providing heat and light for those who are either warm-hearted or light-hearted. It occurred to me, I was neither of those. I was that incredibly inhuman human who was trapped like an animal in a cage for simply doing something that I didn't believe was wrong. I was a fool. A fool in love, not in love with the girl, but in love with the fact that if I wasn't 17; blind; and unmistakably ugly, I could possibly find the girl to love me. It suddenly hit me, I was right about something, I really was a piece of work; a nasty piece of work. I needed someone. But no, unfortunately I was alone. On my last few breaths of sweet, prison air; I began to 'shed' a few tears.


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