Karmic Killing

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

Submitted: March 01, 2018

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Submitted: March 01, 2018

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“Get ready for death!” The burly hero’s chainsaw chews its way through the zombie’s neck, a fountain of blood spurting out on the TV in front of me. ZOMBIE MASSACRE 17

 

“Are you sure this game isn’t too violent for you?” The babysitter brought me a fresh bowl of popcorn, bending down as he set it down next to me.

 

“No,” I said navigating the start menu, “these games are pretty tame…” I stifled a yawn.

 

The clock reads 11:23, over two hours past my usual bedtime. I’m just getting started. Unfortunately, the babysitter has other ideas. I watch as he picks up a pan, the gears turning in my mind.

 

Pan. Weapon. Kill.

 

As I go back to playing games, he cooks up a batch of Mac N’ Cheese, eating a bit of it before sitting on the couch to watch me play. “Kickass,” he says with a smirk. The violence starts as the over-compensative deathmetal plays out a second opening cinematic of the hero cutting down enemies with his synthetic arm, fighting off the forces of evil to keep his loved ones safe.

 

“The twist is that he was born in evil,” I say looking back to him. “He was born to be a heartless killer, but he was adopted by this old religious dude!”

 

I mash a long, memorized sequence of buttons, and he rips the heart from a screaming clown, taking a bite before shoving it down an acrobat’s throat. An evil acrobat.

Once again, I try to fight back a yawn, but this time I fail, and he catches on. “Hey little dude,” he says with a fake tone of disappointment, “I think it’s about time for you to head upstairs.”

 

Normally I would try to argue, but it’s almost midnight already, and I’ve given him enough grief already. “Thanks for letting me play video games this late.” I say as I climb the stairs.

 

 

I wake up to the sensation of two hands wrapping a pillow around my mouth; followed by the feeling of suffocation. I try to scream, but the sound is too muffled by the pillow, and my pulse is gone within moments.

 

And when I opened my eyes, I found only darkness. The darkness of my attic.

 

I went to kick my leg, but could only force it to make sudden, rigid movements. I went to scream, but out of my mouth came the prerecorded sounds of my confiscated Zombie Massacre action figure. “I was born in evil!”

 

Shit, no! I… I really died… like Ash Blastowitz! I… I’ll never graduate, or talk to my friends, or… My feelings of pain quickly change to anger; no, raw hatred. Hatred for the babysitter who killed me with my pillow. And now, another word came to mind, a nasty bad word I’ve only heard on the playground and in Zombie Massacre; Fuck.

 

I rev up my plastic chainsaw arm, and the Collector’s Edition sharpened chainsaw cuts its way through the box, spilling me out along with the other odds and ends stolen by my parents. I crawl my way to the vent, cutting open the grate, and sliding my way all the way down the furnace, which hasn’t been used since January.

Climbing the basement stairs with vengeful intent, I watched as he sat on the couch, watching the news.

“Another report comes in surrounding the infamous and controversial Zombie Massacre game series as they release their seventeenth game, with Christian protests to celebratory acts of teenage rebellion being caused by this pop culture phenomenon.”

The screen flashed, and videos of beatings and upheld signs with scrawled messages in permanent marker were displayed. “There have also been numerous ‘paranormal’ sightings related to some violent incidents involving toys and memorabilia. Some of these have even had ties to the occult. And we’ll be back with more news after this break.”

I was almost to him when he got up for another bowl of popcorn, and I lunge out, skimming his ankle with my chainsaw. Son of a bitch!

“Agh! Shit!” Blood ran all over the carpet and he looked down, taking notice of me. “Fucking brat left his toys out on the floor…”

With a shrug of his shoulders, he tossed me to the floor, returning to his gluttonous tasks. All I have to do now is to wait for him to fall asleep, and it’s GAME OVER.

I can feel his blood in my plastic hands even now.

A few hours later, I had a plan in place; the babysitter, now permanently nicknamed the Babyshitter, was almost asleep, and in that much time I had managed to find my RC car, unlocked my dead puppy’s doggy door, and scrawled out a suicide note in crayon, confessing my murder.

I carefully used my non-motored, razor sharp chainsaw arm to climb up to the couch where he sleeps, and silently open his hand, setting the note there. “Huh, whazzat-” he looked down at his hand, and saw me moving there.

“Holy fuck! The kid! The kid is still alive!”

He lept off the couch, and I fell to the floor as he sprinted for  my room to look for me. Not so fast, Babyshitter.” I climb into the RC, circling around him, cutting at his ankles until he tripped and fell.

“Get ready for death!” I cut into his wrist’s bulging vein, spirting more blood into the carpet.

“Slicing is my middle name!”

I lept onto his back as he froze up, paralyzed in a supernatural fear.

“It’s time to k-k-k-k-ill!”

I cut along his spine, finally digging as deeply as I could into his neck before moving the note there, leaving the house on my RC through the doggy door, off for adventure.


© Copyright 2018 Zach Reynoldson. All rights reserved.