The Man Named Steve

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
a young man takes delight in taking lives

Submitted: January 17, 2016

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Submitted: January 17, 2016

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Suburban monster of the midday. Massacre advocate, and reliant upon torture to let his feelings out. His name was Steve. Steve was a man of simple pleasures. Mainly those of cutting people’s flesh open, but pleasures none the less.

Steve was a quiet man, his victims however, weren’t. It annoyed Steve at the pitch, with which some people could scream to. Especially older males. Nevertheless, Steve jerked the knife into the young woman’s right lung. Forty two. That is the amount of people he had the joy of killing, so far. Blood ran down his arm. ”NO!” he yelled, after realising he would now have to burn the t-shirt he was wearing. He loved that t-shirt. It was Mickey Mouse giving reassuring thumbs up, and now it appeared as if he had a missing arm and was covered in blood, which came from the woman’s neck which he was currently slitting open. Realising he had just attracted the attention of an on looking jogger; he proceeded to cut the arteries connecting to the heart, take it out and put it in a plastic container. The jogger ran. Knowing that he couldn’t possibly catch up to him, Steve broke the window of a nearby car, got in and fiddled with the key lock, started up the engine, and drove after him. Even though the possibility of him having seen Steve’s face was slim, Steve wasn’t going to take any chances. When he came close enough to the jogger, Steve slammed down on the acceleration, and hit the man.

While disposing of their bodies, Steve checked the time. Three minutes past five in the morning. Steve resented his sloppiness. Usually at this point, he’d be making his way home to his warm comfy bed, on which he’d placed a hot water bottle for him to enjoy. But not this time, this time he pondered how he was five minutes late from his usual disposal time. Was it the jogger? The car? Or had he simply been slow in killing the two? Either way it didn’t matter. He pushed the interlocking bodies away from the shore, and watched. Steve enjoyed the way the bodies made the water ripple as they began to sink. He was happy.

“What an enjoyable movie!” Steve said, hoping that he’d fooled his acquaintances, his so called, “friends”, into believing he felt even the slightest emotion. Steve however, misread the situation. He realised this as he was shot tear filled glares from everyone in the room. “How could you say that?” asked one of them, Steve couldn’t remember his name. Steve responded with “Was it good to watch? This, Old Yeller movie, it was fun no?”. “NO!” they all screamed in unison. Steve then began to question why he even tried to appear normal anymore. He escorted them out within the hour. After his guests had descended the stairs and exited his apartment, Steve turned on his computer. He went on to YouTube, and searched for the comedic band, Garfunkel and Oates. The song he most enjoyed from them was one that contained his name in both the title, and the lyrics. “Me, You and Steve”. Steve thought it was brilliant in its comedy, taking real life experiences and creating a song which was, by all standards to Steve, hilarious. Using the tropes and stereotypes of today’s world to entertain a group of individuals who could relate to the task at hand. Yet it was powerful, enough so to make Steve feel like this world, this blue rock, wasn’t doomed after all. Steve sat while the song played on loop, and he read Karin Slaughter’s novel, Indelible. Shortly afterwards, Steve powered down his devices, and went to his bed where he fell into a deep slumber.

Steve’s curious nature could only be described by psychiatrists, as clinically insane or mentally damaged. It was with this thought in his mind, that he whipped, cut and tortured the two young girls he had tied up and locked away in his cellar. He had little time for this, as his evening shift began in the company known as Fed Ex, was about to begin. This was true torment. The endless job of packaging material and sending it through to be delivered. Steve hated this. Unlike the others around him, Steve was not content with the job he currently had. Aside from the repetitive, tedious nature of what he did, Steve believed that he was wasting his potential. He believed that humans should design and create, rather than sit and listen. He believed that contributing to society through an entertainment medium was better than being someone else’s lackey. He believed that he was a creator, not a worker for which someone else’s creations could come to life. Steve began to become more infuriated until he stood up, marched up to his boss’ office and quit. He was happy.

As Steve sat down, he realised that he would no longer be able to pay his bills, so he created a detailed plan. He took the heart from the cooler and opened it. He then left it to thaw out over the sink. While this happened, Steve went to the cellar, and he slit he two girls’ throats while he bathed in their blood. He didn’t mind, as he was wearing his robe, and nothing else that could be stained. Later, after Steve had ripped their skin off and separated the meat from the bones, he prepared a pan in which to cook the heart. He greased the pan with butter and cut the heart into small pieces and put them into the pan. He left them to simmer while he burned the separated skin and enclosed the bones with bubble wrap before disposing of them. By the time he got back, one side of the heart pieces were brown. He flipped them over using a pronged fork. He looked online for a cheap studio apartment, and he found one. He thought it was perfect, as it had a desk, a bed, a window, a fridge, a stove and of course, a bathroom. The monthly rent amounted to one hundred dollars. Steve enjoyed this fact. He then took the heart pieces, and he ate them alongside some leftover rice from his last meal, which was still lukewarm.

Steve raced onto e-bay and amazon, using them to find the highest bidder for all of his luxuries, bar his computer. Within three days, Steve had nothing but the girls’ uncooked meat, his computer and a weeks’ worth of food. His possessions sold for fifteen thousand dollars in total, enough for Steve to make his way. He entered his new apartment; it was dusty and smelt old, a scent which he hated intensely. Steve sat down and began to think, what now? He’d spent all of this time thinking of escaping the humdrum of an ordinary life, but he never thought about what he would do, so he thought. After three hours, he jumped up and activated his computing device. He opened the program, Microsoft Word. Steve had decided to create an auto-biography of his last few days, and eventually his life. So he typed. Steve’s thoughts and feelings poured into this, his opinions mostly.

He finished it that night, and it came time to sign the book. It was an e-signature, but it still counted. Steve paused, and then decided to write his name. Steve wasn’t his real name, merely an alias he preferred to call himself. So at the end he wrote, “Sincerely yours, Thomas Dempsey. And he was done.”.


© Copyright 2020 Thomas Dempsey. All rights reserved.

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