I tried to describe how I felt the first time I killed somebody. The best way to describe it would be that it was a letdown.
I had been expecting a great surge of emotion, something like what they depicted in the movies: relief, regret, angst, or even euphoria. Anything. But I didn’t. It felt like the same way everything else felt. Normal.
Shrinks had said that I was suffering from a type of depression, or that I had a form of Asperger’s, or even that I was holding a certain emotion like love or anger in so much that it created a wall to all emotions. Whatever the theory was didn’t change from the reality though, since the shrinks all agreed that there was no way to fix me except through “therapeutic consultations.”
Give me a break.
Of course, the orphanage where I lived didn’t have the money to waste on those, so instead the nuns treated me like I was slightly retarded, and smilingly urged me to have fun and socialize with the other children.
I’m sure they only had the best intentions, but I was given to the care of one of the priests, in one of the programs they had for orphans. The first week was fine, but the priest in charge of me began to notice that I rarely spoke. He would begin lightly, and when he was certain that I wasn’t going to run to the sisters, he began to become more adventurous. This began to occur regularly.
There was an anti-gun surge in our area. A drop-off box was set-up in the church for people to drop off guns they didn’t want, no questions asked. I knew where the key was that opened the box, so one day, I stole the key, and took from the box an old handgun.
It was a nine millimeter semiautomatic Beretta, heavily tarnished, as if someone had left it in a drawer and never used it.
But it fired perfectly fine.
I stood over the priest, and looked at my handiwork. His face was still in an expression of shock, probably at the pistol I had pointed at his head just a second earlier. A neat hole was located dead between the eyes, just slightly above center.
Obviously, I wouldn’t be able to return to the orphanage after what happened. I gathered up some of the clothes in the donation bin, some money that the priest kept in his desk, and left with the gun.
I decided to call it Ray.
© Copyright 2016 Savior. All rights reserved.
Short Story / Fantasy
Short Story / Humor
Short Story / Humor
Paste the link to picture in the entry below:
Paste the link to Youtube video in the following entry:
Cannot annotate a non-flat selection. Make sure your selection starts and ends within the same node.
An annotation cannot contain another annotation.
There was an error uploading your file.