The Murderous Kind

70 1 1
                                    

            Monster (mon.ster) – someone that is cruel, frightening or evil.

            Antonio Lickerberg – a monster.

The things that happen to us every day from the day we were born affects us solely that even the things we do are unimaginable. We could still live with it because it is rooted mainly to something that had happened to us or to one of our loved ones.

I was living my perfect life doing all the things I used to do. Go to work, eat, sleep, count the days I have remaining, count the days I will kill someone, count the number of people that I killed, count the number of times I replace my dagger and count the number of times my victim would scream for help.

These are all usual to me. No one could catch me because I’m doing it clean. In a sense, I’m a professional when it gets to killing people. I don’t usually kill just because I want to. There’s a reason. There’s a reason for everything and it was all rooted way back when I was still a kid.

She was killed. My mother was killed in front of my eyes in a gruesome and in an unacceptable way. She lay there in my little arms, blood in my little hands and tears flowing down from my little eyes as I saw her saying the words “I love you, son” even though she is already out of breath. I didn’t saw the killer’s face nor did I know the reason why my mom was killed. The alley where she was killed was like a monster in itself, dark with mud ponds around and sounds of sewer rats roaming around the sewers of the alley. It rained. No one helped us and so my mom didn’t make it. Heaven and earth was bestowed upon me. At my early age I saw a gruesome death of my loved one, my only loved one.

I was almost done profiling my “meats” for the day. I have five victims that day, two from the drugs, prostitution and sex category, one from the corrupt politicians’ category and another from the robbery category.

I hang my victims in hooks shimmered with rust and kept them in a plastic bag at a freezing temperature of the old warehouse. I enjoyed the looks of those dead people, they deserve that. In a sense, they even had a nicer death.

They were all killed by me, one by one. I killed them professionally that’s why I’m still not caught up until now. It instilled to me when I was a kid that I will look for that man, whoever he is that killed my mother. In my forbearing, that man was a law offender and what I did was kill all the law offenders I see in my database every day.

I hacked the system of the NYPD profiled law offenders’ database with the use of some of my knowledge in computers. I would hunt them all and kill them gently but sometimes harsh, it depends on my mood actually.

I want them to have a gruesome death, a death they would never forget; a death that only occurred to them because simply they had offended the law. As I was eating the last cookie from my cookie box I heard a noise somewhere at the entrance gate of the warehouse. I heard steps coming from the shoes of a woman, with its heels clacking in the gravel.

I looked at the gate but I didn’t see anyone. I locked up the warehouse and head back home. Killers need to rest too; we don’t kill all the time.

As I was searching for my keys in my bag my cell phone rang. My friend is calling me and I answered the call.

“Hey, Joe what’s up? Why are you calling me?”

“I got to tell you something, Antonio be here tomorrow at my apartment, 7am sharp. I would be expecting you” then he hung up.

“What’s the matter with him? 7am sharp? Isn’t that too early? Oh well, I might as well sleep right now”. I walked through my room without even opening the lights and I dove into my bed burrowing my head in those oh-so soft pillows made of feathers.

The Murderous KindWhere stories live. Discover now