I Am Not a Murderer

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is about a man who was sent by "God" to fix the problems of the society. He has never felt anything stronger than the need to please Him. It comes time to take care of a name on The List. What does he chose? Does he try to make a connection with the name? Or does he do what he is told?

Submitted: November 02, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 02, 2016



Anger. Rage. Equally synonymous for me. Anger to one might be a red face and slightly heated temper. Anger, for me, is rage. Keep speaking when I want silence, potentially a name on the List. Touch my arm slightly above my right elbow, instantly a name on the List. Now, what is so significant about a list? I have to be organized. I’m not a savage, I cannot kill someone on the spot or I will get caught. I do not consider what I do murder. I think of it as help God clean out the disrespectful people of society. If society is going to work, and nonetheless work under Him, there needs to be decent people cohesively working together. I work to shape the society that will soon breed my brothers and sisters in the pure blood of our Lord.

You see, my List is comprised of the upper back of a 25 year old street musician. He was phenomenal, an exquisite physique if I had ever seen one. The firm leather is bound shut with a young gal from Detroit’s lock and key necklace her mother had gotten her for her 5th birthday. The pages came straight from Egypt, the finest quality paper, made from their factories. I wonder if a small child made them. That would be wonderful if one of those little heathens did. I hate children, but I will not kill one, simply because God sent me to take care of those who do not properly contribute to society. Seeing as how kids are mentally too infantile to contribute yet, there would be no reason to remove them. That is murder. And I am not a murderer.

It has been precisely three days, six hours, ten minutes, and twenty four seconds since my last  task of society. I had a dream last night, and it was Him. He told me who was next. Number 567. I take out my beautiful possession, remove the tiny key from behind my lower right 2nd molar, insert the key into the lock, and caress the ink ridden pages as I flip to number 567.

“567. Melissa Cauthryn”

Ah yes, Melissa. I explicitly remember meeting this hefty 19 year old in a bar in Philadelphia a couple years back. I was alone, a preference of mine, and she walks over with her sloshing beer and plops herself next to me. Her long jet black hair swaying all over the place like a mess. She said my blue eyes made her feel like she could trust me, then this olive (both skin color and shape) girl started complementing me. She compared my dusty brown curls to the springs she broke on the trampoline she got for christmas one year. She said my round small nose reminded her of the gingerbread kids she was never allowed to eat, which she would sniff out instantly every holiday. She said that my muscles reminded her of all the things she was not: healthy, in shape, something desirable. I have to admit, her charade was gaining her an ounce of sympathy. After taking a lick of my bourbon, I turn to her and say,”You are young, why are you here? Are you here to gain the attention of a strange attractive man so you have a chance to sleep with him? Are you hoping by admiring their impeccable details they will overlook your distinguishable flaws?”. I lean in very close, “No one will ever love you.”

Then she hunched her body over the counter, staring down the barrel of the beer, her large nose almost touching the brim. I get a ping in my head, and then a small sharp voice. Don’t be vicious, be efficient, you must do the job. She cannot do it for herself.

She gets up to leave and I grab her wrist, which was firmer than I had anticipated. “Stay. Sorry.” I say with gritted teeth. She gets a great smile and sits back down. Three hours later, she leaves. I take out my book, and write

“567. Melissa Cauthryn”

Five years, twelve days, forty-three hours, twenty minutes and ten seconds since I last saw the girl. A prickling smile crept up my face when I finally located her. She is no longer living in Philly, now she is across the country in Idaho. This works out perfectly; 349 was in Nevada. It will take precisely 6 hours to go from Reno to Boise, no stops. I have full control over my bodily functions: my hunger, my thirst, my bathroom usage, my exhaustion. Everything. My body does not escape from my control, it is the epitome of control.

Arriving in Boise I pull into a Westside Drive In, turn my car off, and look at my watch. It has been seven hours since I urinated, nine hours since my bowel cleaning, five hours since my morning granola bar, and twenty minutes since my last drink of water

I emptied the contaminants of my body, while replenishing it equally with average tap water and the most horrendous slab of meat and grease-stricken french fries. Then she walks in. About 100 pounds lighter, and a thousand teeth happier. Still alone, however. No ring on her finger, expensive handbag, designer clothes, and her shocking black hair cut into a sharp bob. She is different. I start to think that she might be converted to a sister, but when her back faces me and I see the red chipping off the back of her shoes. She is faker now than she was before. I look closer at her handbag, the letters should say LV, however her letters say LA. Fake as well. Her cashmere white sweater has a small hole on the bottom edge. She bought it second hand. She is more perfect to cleanse away than before.

My blood roars, my mouth liquefies, my knuckles curl. It is almost time for my favorite part.

I waited at that diner for another hour, and six times I was asked if I had wanted anything else. Each time my answer was the same, but the severity and strength in my voice grew stronger. I have no time for filth who put on the overused smile to get a few extra dollars. I glimpse at my beauty every fifteen seconds on the dot, she takes a sip of her coffee every twenty-two seconds, and is glued to her iPhone screen. The sharp ping in my head returns, due to the excitement of the time, the voice is especially deeper You found her. You see her. See her falseness. Fake clothes all for the looks and attention. Her wasted attention to the small screen. She would rather live a false lifestyle than transform herself and others into my children. She is leaving. It is time. Go, go, go, go, GO, GO, GO, GO, GO. NOW. GO.

I stand up, drop $15, and slowly head out the door. She finished paying with a credit card. My 20/20 allows me to see the name, Jenny Hendras. Stolen. I smile the kind of smile that grabs each ear as I exit the diner. I scour the parking lot. I know the profile of the kind of car she will drive. Nice brand, BMW or Mercedes,  old model that has a dent somewhere on it. Then, bingo. BMW Series 3 2000, a dent on the bottom left bumper, the interior ceiling is ripped, and the seats are all weathered away. I lean against the building, and wait.

“Hello, Melissa. It’s been a while.” I say whilst looking into her eyes, searching for what would be left of her soul.

“What the hell. How did you find me.” She blurts, not angry, almost admiring me.

I stand straight, take a few steps closer to her, my arms are bent showing my palms. I try to show I mean no harm. “I always knew where you were. You could never run from me, let alone who you are.”

Her brows furrow.”What do you mean who I am?”

“Oh dear, I am so happy you asked. Do you remember the young lady I met in that bar all those years ago? The one dying to be alone with a man such as myself? The one who hated herself more than the desire she had to shovel muck into her chomper? I still see you. I still see all of you, my love.”

“I am not that fat monster I was then, I am so much better now. I lost all the weight, I got a boob job..”

That’s what I missed. Her chest is a D now.

“...I have nice clothes. I am more happy now than I have ever been in my entire life.” She says frustrated, and hints at a deeper sadness. One that hides in your heart, and it only shows itself when you are trying to be strong. Or so Dr. Lemaz told me when he said how I lacked common empathy, then went to explain what empathy was.  

“You are no better than you were then!” I snap, she flinches as if I was going to bite her head off right then and there. “I do not want to do this here. Unlock your car.”

“Do what here.”

“Unlock the damn car.”

She takes out her keys, inserts it into my car door first so I have the upper hand and she cannot drive away. She gets in and then we take off. You might ask what if she calls the police? Didn’t you say she has a cell phone? Don’t worry she won’t call the police. If she did she would have to explain why a kidnapped child was in her trunk and why she had a stolen credit card in her possession.

There isn’t actually a kid in her trunk, but she does not know that. She knows nothing, let alone what I am capable of.

We drive to the countryside, one hour outside of Boise.

“Where are we?” She says flatly.

“Pull over.” I said repeating her monotone expression. “You have three minutes to explain to me why I shouldn’t kill you. Why you are a contributor to society.” I press a button on my watch.

“Are you serious? You are going to kill me?” She bursts along with large tears and deep choppy inhales.

“You are wasting time. Now you only have two minutes.” I smile, in a way that made her shut up instantly.

“I buy second hand clothes so I don’t contribute to slave labor in factories that make clothes in name brands…”

She isn’t doing too well. Remember? Heathens making clothes? I’ll give her a pass on that one, she is spitting gibberish.

“I turned my life around! I swear I am not the same! I’m trying to be someone! I am trying to be lovable, to be desirable....” She looks at her hands and her lips curl inwards.

“Clearly I’m not doing too well or you wouldn’t be here right now to remind me. Dammit, maybe.. Maybe you should just kill me! What have I done differently than when you last saw me? I’m still single, still repulsive apparently. I did everything all those girls in high school did, and look where I am.” She started to tear up a bit, flustered.

I instantly stop my watch when she says this. I lift her chin up so her eyes meet mine. I did something I had never done before in my life, I kissed her. As our lips had locked the ping in my head turned into a sledgehammer and screamed WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING? YOU DO NOT INTERACT WITH FILTH IN SUCH A MANNER. YOU MUST DO IT NOW.

So I did. I plunged my knife into her chest, and removed my lips. She looks at me with a single tear streaming down her left eye. Her lips quiver and her eyes slowly dance to the blade protruding from her chest, takes a deep breath, and her body sinks into the seat. I get out of the car, wipe my fingerprints from every inch of the car I potentially touched. I lint roll the seat to get skin cells and hair off. I find half a jug of water in her car and clean my hands and face off.

As I walk away I look up to see if it was raining and touch my face. The skys were clear and so I tasted the liquid that rested on my cheek. Salty. I take out my perfectly crafted journal and cross off


“567. Melissa Cauthryn”


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