"You can be a king or a street sweeper, but everyone dances with the Grim Reaper."
-Robert Alton Harris, convicted of murdering two teenage boys was executed in the gas chamber on April 21st, 1992.
Chapter 17- Connect the dots 2
There was once a young boy who was fascinated by death.
Stuck in an abusive family, he was forced to do all the housework, all the gardening, and all the shopping. When his father remarried, his new wife hated the young boy with a passion and then forced him to do even more chores. But when his father died and he was left in the care of his stepmother, the young boy he was officially 'the man of the house'.
One day, after being sent out to grab some meat from the butcher, the boy was confronted by a cocaine addict with a gun.
The young boy froze as soon as he saw the shaky hand individual, with dried white powder clinging to the hairs atop his nose and dark coloured clothes, which were damp with summer sweat. The gun shook between his slippery fingers, the safety switch already turned off.
As the boy took a step back, about to flee back down the quiet street, the addicts eyes flicked up to meet his, entrapping him in a blue gaze that was hypnotic and alluring. The boy had never seen someone so close to death before in his life. Even his mother and father, who were both taken from him slowly, hadn't looked as utterly disfigured as this man did.
Instead of backing away, the boy took a step closer to the man, daring him to something, daring him to lift the gun. The man, who was both hungry for a fix and severely confused, raised his shaky arm and pointed the gun at the boy's head.
"Give me your money." He mumbled, rubbing his twitching nose with his other hand. He ran his tongue over his teeth and pushed his jaw to one side, a habit he had picked up while using.
The boy, still so entranced by the state of the older man, took another step closer, ignoring his plea for money. A smile grew on his lips as he approached the quivering man, wondering how much it would take to end the life of someone so close to death. The addict froze upon the spot, frightened by the spirit of the young boy, and thrust the gun towards him once again.
"I said give me your money, boy!" Fear made his voice weak, and his handshake even more so. If he wasn't careful, his finger might just slip over the trigger and pull involuntarily. He didn't want to kill the boy, he just wanted money fro his next fix, but the boy wanted to kill him.
He was closer to the man now, the young boy, so close that he could reach out and grab the gun from his hands before the addict even thought of firing. After mulling it over for no more than a second, that was exactly what the young boy did. Reaching out with the speed of a child on crack, he snatched the gun from the addict's hand and laughed when he was successful. The addict, who stood wide eyed with his mouth hanging open, did not move from his spot. Thinking he was on one hell of a cocaine trip, he only gawked at the sight in front of him.
The young boy had now turned the gun on the addict, a deadly kind of confidence sinking into his grip. He held the gun in both hands, not sideways like the gangsters on TV, but like a real man should when serious about taking another's life.
"Give me your money." The boy said, attempting to make his voice deep and rusty, just like his fathers was. He didn't succeed in making his voice manly, but instead crocked the words out in a way only a child could; high pitched, but also deadly serious.
The addict, who was now sure this was just a part of one of his cocaine trips, stuck his hands into his empty pockets and was genuinely surprised when he found no coins.
"I don't have any money." The man said, patting down his pockets one more time. "That's why I asked you for some."
"That's not good enough!" The boy screamed, angry with the man for being empty handed. He had expected to get more than the thrill of killing the man, but unfortunately, that's all he would go home with.
He raked a hand through his short hair and turned back around to the man, waving the gun around in his madness. As he continued to yell at the man for not having money, the gun suddenly went off, trigger clipped by a stray finger. The addict went down in a heap, body thumping to the pavement, soulless, within a split second.
Outraged that he hadn't been able to see the die, the boy cried out God's name and fell to his knees. As his bones made impact to the hard ground, he noticed the blood pool that began to form underneath the addict's head. Gun still in hand, the boy crept closer on his hands and knees until he sat beside his shattered skull. The boy wasn't sure if he should touch him, fingerprints were becoming easier to detect, but he couldn't resist seeing the wound that had ended the mans life.
So, as he rolled the mans head to one side, he squealed in delight as he saw the mangled remains of his brain oozing out of his skull. The pink and red gunk contrasted against the grey pavement, highlighting each damaged cell, each blood clot, each vein.
Running his tongue over his lips, the boy pushed his twig of a finger gently into the side of the mans head, delighted as blood encased his skin and spread quickly out onto the ground.
The boy finally pulled himself to his feet five minutes later upon hearing the approaching sirens in the distance.
He didn't panic; he knew the bullet wound couldn't have been more perfectly placed for him to get away with murder.
Wiping his finger on the inside of his shirt, the boy placed the gun back into the mans limp hand. When the police arrived, it would look exactly like it should; a homeless cocaine addict had committed suicide.
Before the police rounded the corner, the boy continued his walk onwards towards the butcher, whistling to himself his own melody of success. He bought the meat his stepmother had wanted and returned home, his sleep undisturbed for weeks.
Many years later, when the boy was attending high school and receiving straight A's in every subject, he still remembered the exhilarating feeling of satisfaction God had gifted him after killing the man. He had gone through many girlfriends over the years, and found himself deeply enjoying sex, almost as much as he enjoyed killing that man. As he wrapped himself up in the enjoyment that came with being a teenager, he almost forgot about the addict, happy with the satisfaction sex gave him.
But, upon returning home one night to his drunkard stepmother, who complained about money problems, he snapped. He pushed her down the steps of their house, pleased upon hearing the gentle snap of her neck, and dropped a bottle beside her. When the police showed up later in the evening, it seemed as if she had tripped down the stairs with a bottle of rum in her hands, drunk.
The boy cried when they questioned him, hoping his story of finding her body would sound convincing enough. Luckily enough for him, it did. They never took him in for formal questioning and ruled her death as accidental an hour after the scene had been investigated by forensics.
He was old enough to look after himself at this point, so the police decided to leave the house in his care until he found somewhere else to stay.
The boy stayed there for one more year without any trouble from police and without killing another person. His girlfriend of two years moved in with him. They got engaged. She fell pregnant. She mysteriously lost the baby (after pills had been dropped into her glass).
Life was as it should be for the young man.
That was until a new couple moved in next door. They spoke loudly and drank loudly and partied loudly, this was the problem.
The young man began to become sick of the parties and the people. So, on a Wednesday night in the fall, when the music was turned up loud and the house was alive with the beating dozens of hearts, he poured petrol around the edges of the house. He lined the doorways and the windows, splashed the walls and covered the patio. He covered the grass and the trees so no one could escape the block of land. The people who saw him weave in and out of the bushes were too drunk to remember his face or realize their impending fate.
He struck a match at the stroke of midnight and the house set ablaze, lighting his cigarette with the same stick. It took the people inside a while to realize what was going on, but by the time they did, it was too late. Flames licked the walls of every room within the house in minutes, crackling like a bonfire. The first scream sounded at five past twelve and lasted for half an hour. By thirty-five past, no one was left alive.
The police had been alerted almost immediately after the first scream travelled down the street and entered the homes of innocent civilians. When the arrived fifteen minutes later, the blaze was too large and too powerful to stop. As much as they tried to slow the blaze, it grew over the wooden planks until it consumed the souls of all the thirty-five victims.
The young man laid back in his bed that night, comforted his worried lady, and smiled, for the torture was over. He wouldn't have to listen to their music anymore.
Two days later, the police arrived at his doorstep to take him in for questioning. He didn't resist and kissed his woman goodbye, knowing he would see her again.
As he was handcuffed and shoved into the back of the police van, he familiarized himself with one officer's face. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew he would be seeing a lot of this man in the future, for better or for worse. His badge glinted in the afternoon sunlight; Silverman.
The young man smiled the whole way to the station, the whole way to the courtroom, and the whole way to jail.
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You don't know how tempted I was to write Gaol, then I remembered it is set in America, so I changed it to Jail.
Anyways, Hey guys!
Another connect the dots chapter! You know what that means? We are practically halfway through the wattpad book! (Ive shortened the story line so i can hopefully finish it sooner than later)
Comment your thoughts on this chapter!
Who do you think it is?? Someone you already know, or someone who has yet to be introduced to the plot line?
Thank you all so much for reading
I spent all afternoon writing this for you :p
xxCharli
(PS. I haven't edited this chapter so feel free to point out any mistakes)