Tragic Fate
The Plan
Later that night, I sat in my dark pungent basement, and my mind started to race. I thought about the conversation I had with Mark and how I would get Jesus, and that I couldn’t die. I needed to be forgiven. Then suddenly, something inside me snapped. I screamed up to God, “Why? Why are you doing this to me? Why did you give me cancer? God, if you are who every one says you are, then give me a sign.” I waited and waited. With each passing second my anger and frustration started to simmer like boiling coffee left on the stove too long. When nothing happened, I realized I had to do something to save myself if I wanted to live. That’s when I made my plans to kill the only person I knew who had the kidneys to match mine:Mark.
The next day when Mark got home from a long day at the sausage factory, I lured him to the basement by asking him if he could fix our furnace. After he got down the stairs, I picked up an aluminum baseball bat and was about to kill him. My blood started to calm, and I was on the verge of backing out, but I couldn’t. I had to live; I had to make things right before I died. I couldn’t die, so I needed his kidneys. CRACK! I hit him on the back of his skull as hard as I could. Blood went everywhere, and his body hit the floor. I knew it didn’t kill him, so I hit him again and again. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! That was it; the last hit cracked his skull and his brain seeped out.
RING. RING. RING.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Jack Tills?”
“Yeah, this is Jack.”
“I’m so sorry; we mixed up the results from your test.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“You don’t have cancer. I am terribly sorry.”
After the nurse said that with deep sadness, my whole life ended. I was done for. I dropped the phone that was stained from my evil, bloody, life-taking fingers. I slowly made my way to the door. Immediately when I opened the door, the tall officer said, “Jack Tills,” glancing at my bloody hands, “You’re under arrest.”
© 2009 Austin Muratori
The next day when Mark got home from a long day at the sausage factory, I lured him to the basement by asking him if he could fix our furnace. After he got down the stairs, I picked up an aluminum baseball bat and was about to kill him. My blood started to calm, and I was on the verge of backing out, but I couldn’t. I had to live; I had to make things right before I died. I couldn’t die, so I needed his kidneys. CRACK! I hit him on the back of his skull as hard as I could. Blood went everywhere, and his body hit the floor. I knew it didn’t kill him, so I hit him again and again. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! That was it; the last hit cracked his skull and his brain seeped out.
RING. RING. RING.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Jack Tills?”
“Yeah, this is Jack.”
“I’m so sorry; we mixed up the results from your test.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“You don’t have cancer. I am terribly sorry.”
After the nurse said that with deep sadness, my whole life ended. I was done for. I dropped the phone that was stained from my evil, bloody, life-taking fingers. I slowly made my way to the door. Immediately when I opened the door, the tall officer said, “Jack Tills,” glancing at my bloody hands, “You’re under arrest.”
© 2009 Austin Muratori