Status: Complete
The *** of Ethan Monroe
A Problem Not Easily Fixed
"Johnnie, old friend,” the killer mumbled into the half empty flask of whiskey fisted in his left hand. “You’ve always been good to me.” He’d decided to celebrate the idiocy of those after him with a few gulps from his good bottle of Johnnie Walker blue. A thin strand of saliva connected itself from his mouth to the bottle’s opening. He was drunk; there was no doubt about it. This was unlike him. He was always a careful man.
The killer’s mind was in an uncharacteristic haze. His eyes were dark and glazed over. Blood was all he could think about. The addiction was strong. Everybody had their addictions, he would tell himself. Alcohol, drugs, money…his was death. The control he felt in bringing death was overwhelming. But still he found himself distressed, lying on the floor of his apartment.
Closing his eyes, he imagined a bathtub. Feet first, he lowers himself into the thick, dark blood filling the tub. The illusion of warmth brought on by the alcohol made the fantasy all too real to him. The blood pulsed around him to the slowed beat of his heart. The thrumming in his ears was relaxing.
Three bottles in, the killer was slipping. What began as celebration had become desperation. He’d killed seven people in the past year. He had a problem and he knew it. The more he drank, the more disgusted with himself he became; the more self-hate began to pour on. He took lives, hurt families. And now he wanted out.
He knew he couldn’t bring himself to quit and felt confident that the police would never catch him. Had he known Ethan Monroe would be his last victim, the killer would have made more of a show of the act. Thinking on it now, part of him knew, but the majority of his mind chose to ignore that small part. He didn’t want to believe it.
The alcohol incessantly bombarded his insides, his organs were failing. The pain must have been intense, but his mind was already far enough gone that he felt none of it.
That bathtub was death; the blood was his blood.
His heart stuttered, his breathing stopped. The empty bottle clattered to the floor as his muscles went limp. The killer was no more.
The killer’s mind was in an uncharacteristic haze. His eyes were dark and glazed over. Blood was all he could think about. The addiction was strong. Everybody had their addictions, he would tell himself. Alcohol, drugs, money…his was death. The control he felt in bringing death was overwhelming. But still he found himself distressed, lying on the floor of his apartment.
Closing his eyes, he imagined a bathtub. Feet first, he lowers himself into the thick, dark blood filling the tub. The illusion of warmth brought on by the alcohol made the fantasy all too real to him. The blood pulsed around him to the slowed beat of his heart. The thrumming in his ears was relaxing.
Three bottles in, the killer was slipping. What began as celebration had become desperation. He’d killed seven people in the past year. He had a problem and he knew it. The more he drank, the more disgusted with himself he became; the more self-hate began to pour on. He took lives, hurt families. And now he wanted out.
He knew he couldn’t bring himself to quit and felt confident that the police would never catch him. Had he known Ethan Monroe would be his last victim, the killer would have made more of a show of the act. Thinking on it now, part of him knew, but the majority of his mind chose to ignore that small part. He didn’t want to believe it.
The alcohol incessantly bombarded his insides, his organs were failing. The pain must have been intense, but his mind was already far enough gone that he felt none of it.
That bathtub was death; the blood was his blood.
His heart stuttered, his breathing stopped. The empty bottle clattered to the floor as his muscles went limp. The killer was no more.
♠ ♠ ♠
AN: This is the end, I do believe.