(edited)
Warning—This chapter contains grammar issues because i am imperfect.
The image above is a slight example of how the hallucination of Schizophrenia; well is seen inside Elijah's head.
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—I know that I am ruined and that I am ruining others."—
—Fyodor Dostoevsky
______________________________
E L I J A H
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I pulled out my firearm from underneath my cloak in sync as it dangled off my shoulders. I shot my gun into the air which resulted in chaos.
That is how everything started last night.
—
Manhattan, New York.
11:34 PM.
—
Screams; they were definite, terrorizing, and inducing to every single gentleman or lady out there. Everybody that was either buying or doing drugs scrambled out of the scene, out from the dark streets of Michigan, the alleyways mostly shadowed due to the buildings surrounding the streets like trees. So no soul could hear the gunshot echo throughout the broken roads that were the founder of Illegal acts and wickedness.
Elijah usually took a step back when preparing to injure someone. He did it the less painful way because of the experience he preserved inside of his body. Scars never truly heal, wounds never truly heal, and they bleed out every time they receive a small cut, whether physical or not. Elijah never hesitated when it came to someone like him, a bastard lowlife who decided one day to sell pictures of the little girl who was still an innocent angel. Elijah Ishmael Vitale had nothing to lose when he almost pulled the trigger to scare the disgrace of a man before him.
He almost couldn't even stop himself from just creating a homicide of chaos, but the voice inside of his head reminded him to stay smart, on plan, and not backtrack. Elijah kneeled, his breath near the nape of the lowlifes as he lifted the man from the ground by the neck of the man's jacket, threateningly still aiming the gun at his temple.
Ishmael grinned, whispering. "Who ordered you to project these pictures and signs to everyone?" The man shivered and cowered in fear, his lips trembling in stress.
"I don't know." He flinched at the metal pressing onto his temple in a warning.
"-This man came up to me. His face was covered with a mask and a top hat. He gave me the picture and offered to give me five hundred dollars. I a-a-accepted m-m-man." The lowlife stuttered, his mouth jittering as he collapsed to the ground when Elijah let go of him abruptly. A sob escapes his lips when he collides with the cold pavement, tears streaming down his unwashed face. Ishmael sighed and muttered,
"Dear god, please help me," under his breath, and turned around when he heard hiccups of crying from the floor.
The assassin rolled his eyes, kneeling once again. His elbows were on his knees. His hands conjoined with each other; he blew his hot breath into his palms and rubbed them together to create friction. Cold and unforgiving hours of the night were set off like a timer.
The little girl he left was fast asleep at home; his job was done for the day when he read her a bedtime story and checked up on her every three hours during the night.
VOCÊ ESTÁ LENDO
A PAST TO FORGET ✓
Mistério / Suspense[a psychological fiction] A ruthless, heartless man was what Elijah Ishmael Vital was in the eyes of the outsiders. And that was his identity. For a man so adept at what he had done, killing and jeopardizing humans, his eyes were remarkably soft...
