On the Subject of Death

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: October 23, 2017

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Submitted: October 23, 2017

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It’s strange, the idea of death. Death is a problem for the future, but it never is the future. It can only be the now, and no one ever expects death to happen in the now. I have often mulled over the subject of death. We live our entire lives in futility, all for nought when we inevitably perish, almost poetically. We spend all of our time working and wishing and trying, only to end up a husk in the ground. It’s almost comical if you think about all the wasted effort.

The first murder was the hardest. To take another’s life is no easy task. She was a young woman, not a mother. I never harmed those with families. She was a plain looking woman with a cheap car and a sad demeanor. I remember thinking how much of a shame it was that she had to put in so much effort for nothing. I also remember the warmth of her blood as I ran her own car keys over her neck, turning everything around her red. I remember the cold of the rain in that dark corner of the parking lot. I remember dragging her body to a nearby development site and dumping it under a pile of dirt where the trash was to be taken out, making sure to cover the body in vinegar to mask the scent of death. That was 364 days ago.

The 98 murders after that were much easier. Finding people who were wasting resources and their own effort was the simple part. The murder weapon was always something they had on them: car keys, broken sunglasses, pocket knives, whatever I could find on their person. I always used gloves. I was so careful for a while, making my way through the less happy members of my city. I used different construction sites, different kinds of vinegar, different garbage bags. The police dubbed me the “Convenience Killer”. I would have prefered a more poetic name, but I’m not sure what it would have been. I kick myself every day for getting caught dumping the 99th body. I never made it to 100. 100 murders. I would have made it on some kind of serial killer list for having over 100 kills. That would have been nice.

The most shocking part of my whole escapade was how uncomfortable this chair is. No one in the room appreciates my darker humor, and personally I think they are wasting their time. The man in the corner with a receding hairline and too much tension in his shoulders would make a good 100th victim. I voice this aloud, and every person in the room looked at me. I shrug and go back to imagining his blood painting the overly grey room. The priest is talking about how my soul is saved for a God I don’t believe in and the straps on my limbs tighten. I guess the most electrifying part is still to come


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On the Subject of Death

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