I never wished to kill them. All I ever wanted was their love. Their attention, their affection. I just wanted somebody to be there for me. But forget it. That doesn't matter anymore. That stopped mattering a long time ago. Abandoned as a child, I was raised in an orphanage. I never was adopted. The nuns told me that they'd suddenly passed away, but I knew from the looks that they gave me that that wasn't the truth. The way they'd huddle and whisper, then glance over at me like an animal with a deformity. I just knew that I was the unwanted child. I was the ugly duckling who'd never have a happy ending. I'm not saddened at the fact that I've never known my parents, it's the pity that gets to me. How dare they. How dare they glance over at me with that same shocked, disgusted look on their faces. How dare they lead the nice people who'd want to adopt me away. Saying that I'm a problem-child, using words like 'erratic' and 'schizophrenic'; whatever the Hell that means.
I've been released since those days. The worst of my life, by far. But they are all I know; the only distant memories that I can relay to my children and grandchildren in such a nostalgic manner that the ones I saw on the television did. But I wouldn't reminisce. I would reluctantly remember the horrors that I was put through. The way the other kids would never come within a metre of me. The loneliness, my happiness slowly and torturingly drifting away like a boat out of a dock; and to that I say to hell with them. To hell with the orphanage. I hope they all die. But you know what the best thing about that is? I made it all happen. The look on their faces when I came back. Oh, I would do anything to see it again, and the way the bodies slumped to the floor as the shots were fired. Each crescendo brought pure, undiluted bliss. But that didn't eradicate the sadness, the psychological trauma that my parents had put me through. The older kids at the orphanage would tell me to "go see a shrink". Yeah, right. What's he going to think when I tell him I've never even met my own problem?
But they'll no longer be a problem. Not when I rock up to their door and let them experience all the suffering that I went through, with two quick pulls of a trigger. The burning pain. Their last, shrieking breaths; music to my ears. If only I knew where they were. If only I knew who I was looking for, then maybe the pain would go away. I'm in the right state of mind. Today is the day. I will kill them today. Whatever happens, happens, no strings attached. I've left this for too long. There was one person with whom I was acquainted at the orphanage. His name was Derek Johanneson. He was like me in almost every aspect. We were best friends, but sadly, he never made it out of that place. I had just finished dinner when I found him, dangling by a rope from the ceiling fan. The nuns and other students were wailing, screaming, frantically running around, and I was just standing there. The only friend I ever had, dangling by the neck right in front of my eyes. I was too sad to cry, too empty.
Derek's demise brought a wave of curiosity to me. Late at night, I would often sneak out of bed and creep into the headmaster's office, searching for whatever modicum of information I could find on my parents. It soon became an obsession, to say the least. Every night, I'd sneak in there, building up my collection of information. And for the last three years since I've been out of that godforsaken Hell-hole, I've known all their details. And so, from what I've learnt, Mr John McManus and his wife Kelly have given their new son Kevin a good, easy life. He attends Middlebrook Private School on Mitchell Avenue; plays the flute and is about as snobbish as they come. They all are. If they'd never left me at the orphanage, I'd be like them. This only spurs my hatred of them on. I live in a one-room flat in an industrial part of town; they live in a two-storey house in the suburbs. I'm not even envious, because I'm safe in the knowledge that with three swift pulls of a trigger I can bring the whole diseased politically-corrupt temple down on their heads, and it's going to be biblical.
I never bought my shotgun, I created it. I found the main body of the weapon in a skip behind my block. But that's not the best part. I've modified the firing system so that it's powered by an oxygen tank. Sure, it's a little bit of a hassle to carry around but the shots a twenty times more powerful and absolutely silent. Because of this immense power, the bullets disintegrate on contact, leaving no trace of an unwanted visitor. Perfect; and now it can come into use. I can't help myself from laughing. I go outside, it's cold. The smell of impending doom slowly fills the air like a smoke from a blazing fire. Downstairs, my Nissan pickup-truck awaits me. It was the most inconspicuous car that the dumpyard could offer. Like the weapon, it was perfect. I creep out of the garage, like a lion before he attacks prey, and I continue on to the highway. I turn on the radio to JROQ's Sweet Sounds of the 60's. The sheer insanity inside the vehicle beggars belief. I'm excited, but I don't show it. The 40-minute drive drew to a close as I neared Acacia Drive, knowing that, in five minutes time, little Kevin, fresh from his first little-league soccer game with his dear mother and father so excited for him; and I'll be there, the lion patiently waiting for his prey.
Their car pulls up into the driveway. Their judgment hour drawing nearer. The smug grins that they had painted on their faces brings the rage in my chest to a boil. The adrenaline is pumping through my veins. The time has come. Father slowly unlocks the door. He sees the dishevelled man breathing heavily through his nose, he is shocked. Too shocked in fact to notice that he, along with his wife and his son, are being riddled, head to toe with bullets fired from their abandoned child's hand. Their screams muffled and distorted by the sound of Death himself passing through them with his demonic scythe.
I could hear the sirens a few minutes after I'd done the task, but that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that the police caught me. It doesn't matter that I'm going to spend the rest of my natural life in a cell. Nothing matters now, because the deed has been done. All my purpose in life has been accomplished. I'm happy that this great weight has been shifted from my broken, bruised shoulders because it was there for too long. It never should've been there. But now that it has gone; I have seen the light.
