Minds of the Tormented
oo1
Frank.
It’s an interesting experience, witnessing someone’s death. Seeing that moment of realisation, that split second before the light goes out in their eyes, when time stops and there is no sound but the blood pumping and lungs expanding, the nanosecond of resigned acceptance that this really was the end. I often wondered what went through their minds, whether their thoughts were scattered with panic and confusion and fear, the fractured question of ‘why’ flitting backwards and forwards in dim light as their body slowly shut down.
It was never quick; in this business, people didn’t deserve the quick and painless way, the instant closure that comes from suicide or a bullet to the head. After all, they were already taking the easy way out, though not willingly, so why make it any easier than necessary? I was doing them a favour, really. Better I get them before someone else did.
Some of them were different. You could see in the way they didn’t beg for their life, didn’t scream in either anger or anguish, didn’t have that look of sheer panic in their eyes. You could see what they were thinking as they stared back at you with nothing but acceptance, relief almost. I deserve this. I’m finally paying for what I’ve done. It was those people that used to stir some remorse, some regret, some useless emotion I have long since squashed. There was no time to empathise when you did what I did. Emotions only got in the way.
A shuddering gasp caught my attention, the sound followed by several short, sharp intakes of air. I walked slowly over to the person lying sprawled on cracked linoleum floor, legs kicked out in front of them, arm bent at an awkward ankle, wrist broken. I crouched down in front of them, reaching out a gloved hand and moving a dirty blonde strand of hair from their face, a gesture that would have seemed almost affectionate in any other situation.
She was pretty once, I imagined. Golden blonde hair that hung in loose curls, all the way to her tiny waist. Large, clear jade eyes that sparkled in soft light, honey skin lightly dusted in freckles, like satin to the touch.
It was a far cry from what she was now, dull eyed and sickly thin, selling her body on dirty street corners. I had been watching her for a while, pawning off the only thing she owned for drug money to pay off her debts to dealers, the same debts that lead to the murder of her husband and fourteen year old son.
They were good people, the husband hardworking, the son popular but not conceited, smart with a promising future. It wasn’t a fair trade really, a crack whore in exchange for two people who had never committed any wrong other than the mistakes that all people made. The human race was flawed one, after all; no one was perfect.
Her breathing was slowly now, her chest no longer heaving with each breath, her eyes like slits, barely open, not clouded by the narcotics that had run her life. It was one of the reasons this one had taken so long; I wouldn’t allow her to die under the influence, her senses numbed, her brain dysfunctional, slow, unable to comprehend what was happening. The pain relief that came with drugs wasn’t something she deserved.
Her barely open eyes slid to me, loss of blood making it hard for her to focus, her mouth opening and closing several times, no sound coming out, her pleas dying on the tip of her tongue ask she closed her mouth again, eyes slipping shut, resigning to her fate.
She had begged, in the beginning. Begged and screamed and cried, throwing threats of police and imaginary men that would be looking for her, a boyfriend that didn’t exist that would come to her rescue, that would pummel me into the ground until I was nothing but a mess of blood and bone.
She was lying, of course. The only man left in her life was her father, a bitter old man in some retirement home on the edge of the city, blind and immobile. She hadn’t been to see him in many years, the aging man unwilling to accept a druggie for a daughter.
I lifted a hand to her throat now, pressing lightly against the yellow-tinged flesh, feeling for a pulse and finding none.
I stood up, looking briefly around the disintegrating building, the wall paper mouldy and peeling, the kitchen empty of all appliances, long since stolen by youths that often used this house to drink and smoke in, hidden in the shadows from the watchful eyes of parents and neighbours.
I sighed loudly, looking around one last time before starting to clean up. This was my least favourite part, though I never left much mess. Really, I could have just left things the way they were; it’s not like my prints were on anything. But that meant someone else would have to do it, someone innocent, someone who shouldn’t have to do such things. It was bad enough that someone had to find the body; I didn’t want to land someone the job of cleaning up after me too.
It was what made me different from a murderer; I didn’t kill for the enjoyment, for malice, leaving blood and brains scattered across floors for anyone to find, finding amusement and some kind of twisted pleasure in leaving such a horrific scene for another.
I killed because I needed to. Not for me, but for other people, both the innocent bystanders and the ones I killed. They needed me to stop them before they wronged again, hurt someone else, destroyed someone’s life.
People are not allowed to get away with murder and malice and hate. Every crime has a punishment, and that punishment is something every single person who has committed a crime should suffer. Sure, people go to prison. But some people don’t. The ones who hurt others in ways the law can’t punish them, in ways that aren’t seen wrong in others eyes. It is those people that would live out their lives in perfect contentment, paying no thought to the lives they ruined.
The police, they were crowd control. They took down who they could, but they couldn’t get everyone.
Me? I was the one who caught the people who got through the net. Evaded the system. The one who took down the ones who slipped through loopholes and corrupted judges. The one who took down those who couldn’t be jailed for the crime they committed.
Me? I’m karma.
It’s an interesting experience, witnessing someone’s death. Seeing that moment of realisation, that split second before the light goes out in their eyes, when time stops and there is no sound but the blood pumping and lungs expanding, the nanosecond of resigned acceptance that this really was the end. I often wondered what went through their minds, whether their thoughts were scattered with panic and confusion and fear, the fractured question of ‘why’ flitting backwards and forwards in dim light as their body slowly shut down.
It was never quick; in this business, people didn’t deserve the quick and painless way, the instant closure that comes from suicide or a bullet to the head. After all, they were already taking the easy way out, though not willingly, so why make it any easier than necessary? I was doing them a favour, really. Better I get them before someone else did.
Some of them were different. You could see in the way they didn’t beg for their life, didn’t scream in either anger or anguish, didn’t have that look of sheer panic in their eyes. You could see what they were thinking as they stared back at you with nothing but acceptance, relief almost. I deserve this. I’m finally paying for what I’ve done. It was those people that used to stir some remorse, some regret, some useless emotion I have long since squashed. There was no time to empathise when you did what I did. Emotions only got in the way.
A shuddering gasp caught my attention, the sound followed by several short, sharp intakes of air. I walked slowly over to the person lying sprawled on cracked linoleum floor, legs kicked out in front of them, arm bent at an awkward ankle, wrist broken. I crouched down in front of them, reaching out a gloved hand and moving a dirty blonde strand of hair from their face, a gesture that would have seemed almost affectionate in any other situation.
She was pretty once, I imagined. Golden blonde hair that hung in loose curls, all the way to her tiny waist. Large, clear jade eyes that sparkled in soft light, honey skin lightly dusted in freckles, like satin to the touch.
It was a far cry from what she was now, dull eyed and sickly thin, selling her body on dirty street corners. I had been watching her for a while, pawning off the only thing she owned for drug money to pay off her debts to dealers, the same debts that lead to the murder of her husband and fourteen year old son.
They were good people, the husband hardworking, the son popular but not conceited, smart with a promising future. It wasn’t a fair trade really, a crack whore in exchange for two people who had never committed any wrong other than the mistakes that all people made. The human race was flawed one, after all; no one was perfect.
Her breathing was slowly now, her chest no longer heaving with each breath, her eyes like slits, barely open, not clouded by the narcotics that had run her life. It was one of the reasons this one had taken so long; I wouldn’t allow her to die under the influence, her senses numbed, her brain dysfunctional, slow, unable to comprehend what was happening. The pain relief that came with drugs wasn’t something she deserved.
Her barely open eyes slid to me, loss of blood making it hard for her to focus, her mouth opening and closing several times, no sound coming out, her pleas dying on the tip of her tongue ask she closed her mouth again, eyes slipping shut, resigning to her fate.
She had begged, in the beginning. Begged and screamed and cried, throwing threats of police and imaginary men that would be looking for her, a boyfriend that didn’t exist that would come to her rescue, that would pummel me into the ground until I was nothing but a mess of blood and bone.
She was lying, of course. The only man left in her life was her father, a bitter old man in some retirement home on the edge of the city, blind and immobile. She hadn’t been to see him in many years, the aging man unwilling to accept a druggie for a daughter.
I lifted a hand to her throat now, pressing lightly against the yellow-tinged flesh, feeling for a pulse and finding none.
I stood up, looking briefly around the disintegrating building, the wall paper mouldy and peeling, the kitchen empty of all appliances, long since stolen by youths that often used this house to drink and smoke in, hidden in the shadows from the watchful eyes of parents and neighbours.
I sighed loudly, looking around one last time before starting to clean up. This was my least favourite part, though I never left much mess. Really, I could have just left things the way they were; it’s not like my prints were on anything. But that meant someone else would have to do it, someone innocent, someone who shouldn’t have to do such things. It was bad enough that someone had to find the body; I didn’t want to land someone the job of cleaning up after me too.
It was what made me different from a murderer; I didn’t kill for the enjoyment, for malice, leaving blood and brains scattered across floors for anyone to find, finding amusement and some kind of twisted pleasure in leaving such a horrific scene for another.
I killed because I needed to. Not for me, but for other people, both the innocent bystanders and the ones I killed. They needed me to stop them before they wronged again, hurt someone else, destroyed someone’s life.
People are not allowed to get away with murder and malice and hate. Every crime has a punishment, and that punishment is something every single person who has committed a crime should suffer. Sure, people go to prison. But some people don’t. The ones who hurt others in ways the law can’t punish them, in ways that aren’t seen wrong in others eyes. It is those people that would live out their lives in perfect contentment, paying no thought to the lives they ruined.
The police, they were crowd control. They took down who they could, but they couldn’t get everyone.
Me? I was the one who caught the people who got through the net. Evaded the system. The one who took down the ones who slipped through loopholes and corrupted judges. The one who took down those who couldn’t be jailed for the crime they committed.
Me? I’m karma.