A Killer's Innocence (Vengeance is Mine)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
This was supposed to be the new poem I was going to put up but then I figured it would probably do better as a short story. Enjoy:)

Submitted: August 19, 2012

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Submitted: August 19, 2012

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When the man woke up, he found himself sitting on the floor in the corner of the dark and gloomy basement. He stared at his reflection through the bloody knife that had somehow made its way into his trembling hands that were shaking from all of the pain that he was feeling. The blood had slowly begun drizzling onto his already stained pants and cascaded to the wooden floor. He didn’t know how he got the knife or how it ended up in his hands but he knew he was the one that was holding it.

Sweat began dripping off of his head, mixing itself with the blood on his hands. Slowly, he releases his grip on the knife almost as if he’s giving up on something, but he doesn’t know what it is, letting it fall to the floor. He gathers whatever scarce amount of strength he has left and decides to stand up. Arching his back, he gives it everything. His feet are pushing but sliding and his hand glide across the wall behind him as if he is trying to grab onto one of those handicap handrails you would see in a public restroom.

He stops for second because at this point he is about to pass out. Breathing in the warm, murky air around him, he feels that he has gained enough energy and is now ready to try again. This time, he is successful. He tries to observe everything in the room. Tries to make out where he is but he can’t. His eyes are still focusing and he is still waking up. After making it on his own two feet, he almost falls back down, not only because he is weak, but because he feels he is drowning in an ocean of pain.

He doesn’t know where all of these agonizing aches are coming from. He looked down and examined his body and counted seven wounds. The blood on the knife was his. He didn’t know why he would try and commit suicide. He wasn’t suicidal. He had no reason to become suicidal because he had the perfect life. He had a perfect job and family and he was a decent man.

He glanced at the door in front of him, which he figures is probably the way out. When the man made his way to the door he caught a glimpse of a person lying in a bed in the other side of the room. It was a woman. She was sleeping on her side facing the opposite direction. The sheets covered almost her entire body except for the end of her head.

He walked over to her asking questions like what her name is, to which she has no reply. The man repeats the question and still no reply. Finally, he walks even closer to her and pats her shoulder to try to get her to wake up.

He repeats the question again and the silence between them still remains. He pulls her over to her back only to find gunshot wounds, 12 of them. The man is shocked. He doesn’t remember shooting her. He doesn’t remember firing a gun at all.

All of the sudden, a few knocks on the front door are delivered by the police department. Whatever shots were fire and whoever fired them were heard and reported by the neighbors. The man knows he is trapped. There is nowhere he can go. The house is surrounded and he is enclosed in the center. He knows he has no choice.

He must accept the punishment of the crime he doesn’t even remember committing. He makes his way over to the same exact spot of which he woke up in and sits back down. He waits, not because he wants to, because he has to. He closes his eyes and tries to calm himself down.

Though the man is distracted, he keeps his eyes closed. He wants to keep his eyes closed, but he can’t. He hears a voice. It’s not the voice of the police. It’s the voice of the woman. She’s alive. The man opens his eyes and finds himself tied to the bed, that he just saw her lying in. The events that have just occurred; The man waking up in the corner, holding a bloody knife, finding out the blood was his and finding a woman sleeping in a bed who was actually dead with gunshot wounds in her chest, was all just a dream. In fact, what if everything I’ve just told you was a lie?

What if the man didn’t have a perfect life and wasn’t even close to being decent? What if he was a psychopathic murder and rapist who had already done this sort of thing several times before? It was the woman who woke up in the corner of the basement. Only, she didn’t wake up with the knife in her hands.

She loosened up the rope that was tied around her, and grabbed the gun that was lying by the knife off of the table by the bed that the man was sleeping on. The man broke into her house several days ago and turned her into a prisoner on her own property. He turned her into a slave and raped her multiple times. The woman didn’t have any neighbors. She never had to worry about noise complaints because she lived on a farm, a very big farm.

The woman was the one who was stabbed seven times in the chest. The man was finished with her. So why is she still alive? Because, out of all seven times the man stabbed her chest, the knife never came close to her heart. However, she was loosing a lot of blood. The woman knew that she didn’t have long. She loosened the sloppily tied knot of the rope she was tied in. Quietly, she walks over to the bed. The man is still sleeping. The rope was long. How long was it? It was long for to tie it around the man and the small bed eight times. She crawled under the bed and tied the rope to one of the steel bars of the bed. The man still wasn’t awoken even with the tight rope pressing against his chest and waist.

The woman’s husband, who was away on a business trip and had taken their kids to their grandmother for the weekend, used to be a construction worker before he owned the farm, so it’s very obvious that he has plenty of old tools in the garage. The woman had found an old jackhammer and made a grave for the man right in her own home. She dug through her wooden floor and concrete until she got to the dirt and used what strength she had left to dig a giant hole. There was dirt everywhere from the hole she had dug. She gathered a few zip ties from her pantry and used them to tie the man’s hands and feet together.

When the woman finished digging, she flipped the bed over upside-down over the hole. The man woke up staring at his cause of death. She then grabbed the knife off of the nightstand and cut him loose, watching the man fall into his own grave. She then grabbed a small tank of gasoline and emptied it onto him. The man’s dream of the police busting down the door is what he wished would’ve happened, his body being lit on fire is what’s about to happen and his death is what’s going to happen. The man may lie helpless, afraid and furious simultaneously, but even he knew he deserves what’s about to happen to him.

She dropped a lit match into the grave, sat back and relaxed. The man screamed for his life until he fractured his larynx. He kicked the walls of the hole, thinking that the falling dirt might somehow put out the massive fire. After a few minutes goes by and the woman thinks he’s had enough, she takes the shovel and returns the dirt back into in the hole.

She tries to shovel it all back in but struggles from her severe wounds. She pushes, pushes and pushes some more until she becomes so weak she has no choice but to fall to her feet. She has given up on the shovel and has no choice but to use her feet to push the dirt back in. She cannot allow this man to live. He lost his right to a fair trial a long time ago. She can’t allow the police to find him alive. After several hours of pushing piles of dirt with her feet over and over again, she lies down and takes in a sigh of relief. She is a hero for what she did. She killed a murderer and saved a lot of lives. If it weren’t for her, many other women would’ve experienced the same torture that she did.

And so the young woman lies helpless on the ground. She is ready for death. She has accepted death. She has invited death to take her away, but not yet. She crawls up the stairs, out of the basement and into her living room. She crawls over to a table by her front door. The table had a lot of framed pictures of her and her family. She doesn’t want to die thinking about them. She wants to die looking at them and knowing that she had succeeded. Taking one last glimpse of pictures of happiness before she makes her departure, she picks up the pictures of her three young boys and kisses each one of the pictures. She then picks up the picture of her husband and holds it to her chest with her arms wrapped around it. She knows it is too soon to die but at the same time, four satisfying words come to her mind: “A job well done”.



A/N: Check out the new decoded version here


© Copyright 2017 Austin Converse. All rights reserved.

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