In Cold Blood.

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In Cold Blood

 

I was standing in one of New York's vast parks, last nights cold apparent from the white frost that lightly covered the normally green grass. My next victim stood ahead of me, silhouetted by the low, early morning, autumn sun. I made sure that I traced his steps, placing my shoes in the imprints made by his in the grass. This meant that I didn’t leave my own footprints and that I also did not crunch the frozen dew on the grass, making my approach that little bit more stealthy. I was yards from him when I reached inside my black Armani raincoat, my hand grasping the gun, placed inside the holster wrapped around my shoulder, the harsh coldness of its metal handle not felt through my black leather gloves. I quickly withdrew the weapon and, with practised ease, took a fix on my target. He was much smaller than me, although most people were, and I could see the wisps of his clouded breath, fogged by the early morning chill, rising up above him. I had to aim slightly downwards to get a fix on the base of his skull. This point would kill the man instantly. I didn’t realise until  I slowly released it, but I had been holding my breath. I applied minimal pressure to the small piece of metal that would start the chain reaction soon to follow. The ‘phut’ of the bullet leaving the barrel of the gun was hardly heard, quietened by the silencer screwed into the end of the device. Only the birds seemed to pick up on this sound as they all flocked from their morning resting grounds of a large oak tree nearby. The bullet hit the man at the point where the neck and skull met and his body and, although only momentarily, went taut; almost as if he had been expecting such a thing. His body then swiftly slumped to the ground, his life draining quickly from the new orifice in the back of his head. Blood oozed from the fresh, smoking wound and left deep, crimson stains on the ground, the white frost a great contrast to it. A bee busied itself amongst the wild flowers beside me, its monotonous drone, a testament to the normality of the day. Ahead of it, birds dodged between the trees, almost chasing each other in some game that only winged creatures could play. Above me, an aeroplane, carrying it’s passengers to a paradise destination no doubt, carried on regardless. How could the day take no note to the act of violence that had been perpetrated; how could this vicious act not taint the air itself?

Funny as it may seem, after delivering death upon this man, I myself considered life. As I stood in the beauty of the park, the many different colours of the leaves as they died and fell from the tree staining on my mind, I wondered, for what reason was I placed upon this Earth? What was the point of life? Was it cyclical? Is there such a thing as reincarnation? Would this dead man get his second chance....... would I? Maybe I would be given the opportunity to seek my redemption, to ask for the forgiveness that I hardly deserved, to repent my past indiscretions. If I could, would that not mean that I would spend my life paying for the awful things done in my past lives? Repaying the debt to society that I have amassed in a different time? The answer was no! I would repent my sins in this life, not having another chance, just now. I always had the feeling that my past would catch up and haunt me. I was, however, totally oblivious to just how close this time was.

So what was this past that would catch up with me? I’m not going to blame my childhood for the life I now led. I grew up in Brooklyn, a poor black boy in the heart of the gang run ghetto. My mother died when I was very young, and the only memory I have, the only reason I knew that she existed, was that life was once good. After she died, my father grew distant, telling me that I was too much of a resemblance of my mother. I was an only child so had no brothers or sisters to turn to for help. Soon after this time, when I was about 7, my father would invite his ‘friends’ around, they would give him things, beer, money, anything that he wanted at the time, and he would give them............... me. I was abused mentally, physically and sexually and my father sat back and let it occur while he gained everything and I lost my innocence and my childhood. He sold me as a possession, rented me to anyone willing to pay. This happened many times over the years- too many to count, too many to remember, too many that I could remember- until I finally ran away. I turned to killing to support myself, not because I was forced to or because of the things that had happened to me, but because I chose to. The first person I ever killed was the first man that ever laid his filthy hands on me. I can remember that day like it only happened seconds ago, I made sure that I remembered it. He was walking home, it was late at night and I seem to always remember the smell of him. Even now, to this day, the smell of whisky turns me sick. I will save you the details of exactly what I did to him but when they found him in the morning, they needed to use his dental records to discover his identity. I was only seventeen years old. I almost love that night, remember that I enjoyed that moment so much, drew it out for almost two hours, torturing and humiliating him, before finally putting him out of his misery. But why did I put him out of his misery? Did he show me the same compassion? It was, I realised, because I was ashamed of myself, what I had done to a human being.

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 I was twenty-two when I received the news of my fathers death and had made a relatively good life for myself. Despite all the things he had done to me, I cried when I was told. To this day I'm still unaware of the reason I cried. Maybe it was relief or maybe it was grief of losing my father.

But back to now, this time, back to the park where another cadaver lay, felled by my hands. I was not  killing nowadays for me, but for others. They would pay me to kill their tormentors. Many people would say ...

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