My farced up short short story

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Fear...anxiety…uncertainty. I can’t remember what it was I felt when his gaze caught mine. I bit my bottom lip, my eyes locked with his. His eyes were dull and dark, completely devoid of any form of soul or humanity. His gaunt face only accented this menacing evil I saw in his eyes, his wavy amber hair swaddling to and fro from the breeze of the open window. I couldn’t move, if I had wanted.

I peered down for a moment to try and break the stare down between the two of us. I started to speak, but thought better of it. Anything I’d say would possibly only hasten my death. No…it WOULD hasten my death. I’d seen this man murder five people tonight. I was ghosting him for some reason I cannot recall, but I would soon come to regret that.

His first victim of the night was young Molly de Veinteloco. A young Hispanic girl of about fifteen, she had a full set of lips and smooth hair as dark as a raven’s feather. She was wearing a velvet halter top and tight leather pants to accentuate her exquisite female form. He had no reason to take her life, this young teen whom had her whole life ahead of her. I barely knew her, but I knew her mother. She wanted to become a veterinarian when she grew up.

God, why couldn’t he have just let her be? Why did she have to be the first victim?

He strangled her—the least grisly of his sadistic works. He hid in the bushes along the small walkway leading to the backdoor of her parents’ house. I remember watching him from afar sneak into the bushes and get comfortable and well-hidden in his olive green street clothes. Normally someone as tall and lanky as him would have much trouble hiding, but he made it seem effortless.

He watched intently as she began to depart from a long night of partying with her fellow classmates. She stumbled up along the dark, lightless walkway, mumbling to herself about hoping she wouldn’t have a hangover in the morning. She began to fumble around for her keys on her way, dropping them right in front of the bush he’d been hiding in. He made his move as soon as the keys fell to the ground. She began to cry out for help, but he was too fast for her. I wanted to yell for her, but something stopped me, almost as if I was compelled to watch this gruesome deed of his. He moved silently and swiftly, holding her down, fingers gripping her neck like a vice. It was almost beautiful, really. The most I could make out was her face turning from its soft tan color to a dark bluish purple hue. Such a transition in color seemed rather unreal…perhaps that’s why I found it to be morbidly beautiful.

Once the deed was done, he charged off, not taking a moment to so much as admire his work. At the time I was relieved he didn’t linger any further than he did, but now I wish he had. I continued to follow him, being as quiet as I could while he ran like he was running the marathon. He came to an abrupt stop in front of what I assumed to be his home. I watched him fumble with his keys and charge into the house. Moments later I heard some yelling and screaming by some older woman. I sneaked over and peered out the corner of a window into the house.

He and a woman I assumed to be his mother or grandmother were arguing and yelling at each other. She was complaining about how he seemed to have no respect for her rules or her and how he was always so secretive. He mumbled something I couldn’t quite understand or make out and stormed off. The woman sighed and collapsed into the chair, her face resting in the palm of her hand, soft sobs escaping from her. I think she was in her late fifties or early sixties—it was rather hard for me to tell. Her hair was rather bright, a sort of pinkish color. It was obvious that it was a wig. Her fingers were wrinkled as was the rest of her hand, many a vein visible all over. She look wearied and tired, a look she probably stopped trying to hide ages ago. She was wearing a lovely crimson nightgown with wondrous floral patterns all over. The room she was in was rather crudely decorated, only the bare essentials of a wooden floor, table, and dilapidated wood chairs.

She didn’t have long to cry as the unnamed psychopath reappeared, a sort of Dirty Harry special in hand. The first thing he did was yell for her attention and then whipped her with the butt of the gun. She cried out and begged him to stop, but he would have none of it. He dealt several blows to her body, making her cry out like a banshee in pain. It surprised me no one else seemed to have heard anything. Maybe these cries were all too common and they just chose to ignore them. Then things took a turn for the worst. He…he did things that I just cannot describe, things that are so horrible that no person should have to see or experience. Once satisfied with hurting the poor, defenseless older woman, he opened fire into her head, between the eyes. He stared at her for a few minutes, his face dark and hidden by his hair. Then he stood straight up, smiling as if proud of himself. He charged out the door right after I caught glimpse of the smile.

I began to chase after him, wanting to see what was going to happen next, or perhaps this time maybe put a stop to his savage crimes. However, I would not have the chance to do so as soon as I’d like. He came across a small child, a child perhaps only a few years younger than he, about seven or eight. She had curly red hair and freckles scattered over her cute little plump cheeks like someone had painted something above her. She was clutching a teddy bear rather tightly, looking up at the infernal bastard with a magnum in hand. I was wondering why she was even out at this time of night, but I knew that that was not important at the moment.

“Hello, little girl.” he muttered.

“I’m not s’posed to talk to strangers.” she replied sheepishly.

He chuckled and shook his head. He smacked her with the gun, not even bothering to respond. I began to shout, but again it felt as if something had stopped me. Thankfully I heard someone else do my part and come out from the house. I believe it was the girl’s mother or just an innocent bystander who happened to see him hurt the poor child. I couldn’t really make out her face or any other features aside from that she was wearing a pink sweater and loose bellbottom jeans. She grabbed his arm and they began to struggle with the gun. I started towards them until I heard a shot. A ghastly look came over his face as he looked at the little girl, a bullet hole in the teddy bear’s head, right where her heart was. The woman began to scream hysterically and charged to the girl’s side, muttering about calling the police.

He would have none of that and made a stabbing motion to the back of her head with the barrel of the gun. I couldn’t see too well, but I could tell that he had put enough force into his motion to force it into the back of her head, killing her. He grunted and forced the gun out, watching with a twisted grin as her body fell atop the child’s. No remorse, no care, no anything. He was enjoying this all too much.

I ran after him, not sure if I wanted to continue to run or if I should call the police and alert them of his actions. He ran into another person stumbling around on the streets. Homeless fellow with a ripped up Members Only jacket and scraggly grey hair as well as a long grey beard. He started to back away, but wasn’t fast enough on the draw. The lanky murdering son-of-a-bitch put two bullets into him without batting an eye. I screamed, then, and caught his attention. He started to shoot at me, but I ran off to get away. He moved after me, growling angrily.

I dodged into an abandoned house, rummaging through the rooms that I could to get away before slinking away into the bathroom. I heard him rip through the same areas I did, knocking almost everything that could be pushed away over. I prayed to God at that moment he wouldn’t come in here, but my prayers went unanswered.

His footsteps sounded heavy, only his breathing heavier than that. I started to try and edge out of the bathroom, but that is when he saw me and our eyes met. I regained my composure and looked back up to him after having broken off the stare down of ours. He seemed to have mimicked my actions, something I found quite peculiar and puzzling. Then something compelled me to do something I considered suicidal: reach out to him.

He stared into my eyes as I stared into his own, he not moving one bit as I reached to him. I began to sweat, panting a bit as my hand went up to touch him. But the second I touched his cheek, I knew something was wrong. I was touching the mirror. It felt cool to the tips of my fingers, almost refreshing. I gulped and began to feel at the bastard, but soon came to the grim realization: It was me. I am the murderous bastard. I began to feel weak in my knees, my body shaking and trembling violently. I charged out of the bathroom and raced to the entrance of the house, tripping over the small stone steps and landing onto the grass below. I vomited for a few seconds, my body covered in a cold sweat. I couldn’t believe it, what had happened? I don’t remember being there for those horrible events.

What the fuck?

I knew what I had done was wrong and that there was no way to really atone for my heinous and cruel sins. I simply picked myself up and sat on the steps, tears streaming down my eyes as the sound of sirens began to ring in my ears, the lights approaching my general direction. I knew then there was only one way.

I put the gun to my head and asked God to forgive me for what I had done. I’m sure that was all that was all I really could do at this point, my finger itching to pull the trigger.