Lit.Org - a community for readers and writers Advanced Search
 




Average Rating
10

(2 votes)


RatingRated by
10Unknown
10Unknown

You must login to vote

Ah. Hello. I see youíre another, Eh? Another come to talk to me here in my room. About my neighbor. About the murder. Iíll gladly tell you. Itíd be my pleasure because I enjoy the thought of it every day IĎm trapped in here. Knowing that the king of my town is dead at my hands replenishes my ego day after day, week after week, year after year as my sentence creeps on. Thatís your chair there. Scoot up to the table. Why, youíre sweating. You lick your lips as if you are nervous. Please, relax. Ask the guard for a cup of coffee if you will. I have no urge to kill you. Iím a very calm, very sane man. Iíd sooner shake your hand than cut it off. Youíre still shaking. Stop it. I said stop it. Thatís much better. I see youíve got a tape recorder with you. By all means, press record. Remember to press record with the play button simultaneously or it will stick. Youíve got it. What would you like to hear first? Why I killed him? My motive? I had one. I wouldnít call it jealously. I feel it was my duty. A service to the community. The man had offended so many people. Why should he continue with his life? He was the sort that enjoyed leaving his blinds open so that passers by can see his big screen. I saw it that night too. Through the window by his front porch. The one that is in the shape of a tombstone. Rather ironic, isnít it?
That stupid little prick. That offensive, officious little prick. I hated his guts. I hated the very blood and oxygen that kept his worthless carcass walking. But it wouldn't be walking very much longer. Not after I got through with him. The little jerk wouldnít even have any legs to walk with when I got through with him. I watched him through the window, sipping his steaming tea, folding his sports page of the news paper. I watched him lift up his remote, flick a few channels, and set it down on the night stand beside his overstuffed La-Z-boy recliner. He was so fucking full of himself. His shit didnít stink at all. No, no, his shit smelled like a bed of roses. Like a bottle of expensive French perfume. A mixture of the two delightful scents. To me it smelled of spoiled food and decay and plain old shit. Maggot food. Maggot vomit. Which was what he was, at least to me. A pile of shit in the shape of a man. He thought he was better than me. But he was sorely mistaken.
I know you must be thinking Iím crazy. Maybe I am. Maybe Iím not. Either way, I did what I did. So now you know why. I hope you realize that I am not planning to censor this description in any manner. Ok with you? Good. Every detail of my work makes me crawl with pride. I wouldnít want to keep it all to myself. I see youíre still sweating. I asked you to stop that. Fucking stop it. I told you, youíre perfectly safe. Just relax. Listen to my story. These chairs are surprisingly comfortable. Lean back. Can you feel your muscles relaxing, the tight ones in your back? Feels nice, Ay? Thatís because theyíre connected to a lot of other ones. If I happened to push a blade into it youíd flop around like a fish. Can you guess how I know that? Thatís right. So bright you are.
I watched through the window until his eyes drifted closed. His arms dangled down from the arms of the chair. The remote fell from his slack fingers. The paper rested on his lap. So peaceful, dozing in his humble chair. I wanted to make sure the fuck never woke up again. I had watched him from my upstairs bathroom window many times. I knew he kept a small key under a potted plant on the banister on his back porch. A fern. A perfect, green, shiny fern. With a decorative turtle ornament hanging from it. The key was under the pot. I jogged around the side of the house until my bare feet touched the cold stone of his back porch steps. From there I gently lifted the plant up and shifted it to my right. I sat it on the porch next to my dirtied feet. I took the cold metal key in my hand. I rubbed it with my fingers. I loved that key as if it were my wife. Iíd have made love to it if I could have. It hated him as much as I did. That was why it would be my accomplice in manslaughter, correct? A simple nod. I like that. You did do it rather fast. Still nervous? You should be at this point. This is where it gets really good.
Why do you keep staring at the guard? Heís paying you no attention. Heís busy scratching his crotch and jingling the change in his pocket. And the lady in the dress, there? Sheís the psychologist. I have an appointment after this meeting, so we should hurry things a touch. There, you see? Sheís concentrating on pulling lint balls from the attractive material. She doesnít give a ratís ass about you or your being in here. I thought you were interviewing me, anyways. You are, right? I thought so. I would appreciate if you kept contact with me throughout this section of the story. I am going to tell you how I killed him. I am going to tell you what it feels like to shove a knife blade into a human body and rip it up through an abdomen. Iím going to tell you what organs feel like when you let them slide through your clawed fingers. I am going to tell you everything that you need to stay awake at night. Thatís right. Gather your breath. Look away from my eyes if you have to. Some say they see a hint of red in my pupils. I just ask you to listen to what I have to say. Be like your recorder there. Be silent, still, relaxed, and be taking in all my words.
I had thought ahead enough to wear no shoes or socks. Shoes would make a slight thumping noise as I walked across his linoleum floor. I knew it was linoleum because I had watched him bustling through the kitchen with glasses of frothing beer and wine night after night. I had watched him take them to different women, intoxicating them, seducing them with his fucking money, until he carried them into his room and had his way with them. Their moans of pleasure often kept me awake at night, along, sickeningly enough, with his. They made my blood boil with hatred for the son of a bitch. Not only was he terrorizing my town, but he was taking advantage of women. Women that had husbands and boyfriends and children. Women who wanted his money. Even teenage girls he brought home after offering a ride after school. Some in cheerleading uniforms after practice. Some younger than fifteen years of age. It had to stop. And death was the only way. No punishment would do except for extinguishing his existence. So you see? Society as it is would have pardoned him for his disgusting trespasses. He had money, of course. They would let him off easy. But not me. Oh no, not fucking me. And, my good, man, this is how I did it.
I mentioned before that I wore no shoes or socks. I explained the shoes. I wore no socks because I didnít want to slip and slide about like a drunken ice skater if he ran from me. I assumed the flesh of my feet would grip the floor well enough for me to move effectively. But I never had to run. I told you he was sleeping. He never even made it a foot away from the recliner.
His kitchen was well arranged, very tidy. Very neat and polished and clean. I enjoyed being inside his home, breathing in the cool air, pulling open various drawers and sorting through his belongings. I read his letters, his phone bills, his recipes...I went through everything he had stored away in the kitchen. I stopped when I slid open the far right drawer below the sink. I can still feel the chilly metal between my fingers as I pulled it open. I heard the rattle of blades clicking together. My eyes must have lit up like a childís on Christmas Eve. So many choices. Some with serrated edges. Some long and skinny. Others short and fat. Some long and fat. Others short and skinny. My mouth hung open like a cave in my face. I wrapped my hands around the sleek plastic handle of a glinting butcherís knife, one of those long ones they use to hack beef tips off. I sucked on the tip of it, rubbing it with the tip of my tongue, as I searched through the others. None of them were quite as impressive as the knife I held in my right hand, but I finally decided on a medium sized knife used for filleting fish. I smiled at the two weapons clenched in my hands. I smiled at my reflection in the blades. You know that flare of power you feel when youíre holding something powerful? A knife? A gun? A hand grenade? you get the picture I think. I felt it. I felt it running through my veins like transparent blood. And it powered me. It generated hate and energy at the same time. Those old familiar feelings I loved to hate came back into my system and my brain. Memories of his sexual violations with children. Thinking of all the times the prick pissed me off. My hand grew tighter around the knife handles with every waking second. I remember saliva spilling from my lips and running down my chin. I took my time. I moved my legs slowly. I wanted to enjoy it. I loved being inside his home. I even loved watching the little ball sack sleeping. I kept chewing on the tip of the butcherís knife...I suppose you can say I was nervous. Nervous but happy and excited, like a thrill seeker about to leap from an airplane with a parachute strapped to his back. I can remember stifling laughter. Brushing my hair out of my eyes. Back then I had long, golden bangs that continually hung down into my face and obstructed my view. I saw that smile there. Yes, I am quite bald now. My hair has long since fallen out. But donít concentrate on the wrong elements here. Iím getting to the murder now. You have motive and reasonable insanity, right? Wouldnít you like to know how I gutted the fuck?
I looked down at him sleeping, listening to his breathing. It enraged me. I loathed it. A deep inhale, a brief pause, and then a somewhat whistling exhale. I wanted it to stop. So, I gripped the blade tightly, so tight I thought my fingers might stay closed around it, and I put so much force behind the blow that I shouted. The knife whickered through to pleasant living room air, racing for his chest. And, when I thought it might never get there regardless of the speed-
Excuse me. Iíve been talking for a while now, Iíd like some water. Thatís much better. Howís your tea? Good I hope. Itís usually fairly decent around here. Now back to the murder. Have you ever rammed a knife into a watermelon as you are opening it to eat the sweet insides? You would be surprised at the similarities. I buried the knife deep in his chest, and it made a thick slicing sound. I heard the dull crunch of splitting bone. The knife didnít feel light anymore; it felt heavy, because of the human body it was sticking out of. I tugged it up, past his right nipple, slicing and tearing all the way, before I pulled it out. Fat bubbled from the laceration like cotton swells from a torn teddy bear. Black blood leaked from the cut and began to pool on everything, his clothes, the floor, the arms of the chair...everything close. Blood is red. Iíve slashed myself shaving many times and it is red like tomato sauce. But his wasnít. I swear to this day that the blood was black. As black as tar. As black as oil. It was not human. I got a good look at it. It dripped off my knife. It splattered in my face and the entire room with the pulsing of his heart. It tasted salty on my tongue. I liked the taste.
I grabbed a handful of his warm, saturated shirt and threw him heavily to the floor. Immediately blood flowered beneath him. It was like a beautiful painting. I lifted the butchers knife above my head and slammed it back into his body, this time between the shoulder blades. Blood spat from the cut and I wiggled the knife to open it up more. I wanted the black fluid to drain completely. I heard the squeak of it scratching bone. It may have lodged between two of them because my muscles strained trying to pull it free. He began to crawl away from me, dizzily, like a baby, the knife still protruding and quivering with his uncertain movements. His hands slipped in his blood. I grinned down at the filleting knife in my left hand. It was the one that would kill him. I used my foot and I kicked him right in his bulbous ass. He tumbled forward and fell onto his side, and I saw a small piece of shirt poking up like a tent that I had not noticed before. His had hit his back on the wall or the floor and the knife had begun to impale him. A haphazard injury, but beautiful nonetheless. I saw him spit blood from his mouth. It dribbled down his shaved chin. It gargled in his throat. I jogged to his side and kicked him in the stomach. His arms buckled and he flipped onto his back. His eyes widened and he screamed a choked scream when the knife dug deeper into him, slicing the shirt open and poking up through him like a sharkís fin surfing through the ocean. His eyes were glazing. I knew he was dying.
How much of the murder have you heard? Did you hear only that he was stabbed, or that he was mutilated? They only told you I stabbed him. They treat you like a child. My friend, I sliced him open like a grapefruit. Thatís right. Swallow the vomit, donĎt dirty up my cell. Wipe the tears from your eyes. I told you to relax. Youíre fine. I was insane that night. But only that night. I donít want to murder you, Iíve said it a million times. If I wanted to, I could choke you to death with these handcuffs. I could slip them over your head and bring my wrists tightly together. The chain would dig into your neck, bruising and cutting skin until your eyes rolled white and you turned purple and fell dead at my feet. Thatís what I could do, but I wonít. I could stab you with a jagged, broken table leg. Just flip it and break it off. Iím very strong. Strong enough for that. It would be rather dull, but with a few good whacks I could drive it straight through your rib cage. I could even jam your pen into your throat. Click it open and treat it as a knife. Iíll be honest with you. I thought about that one. It was right by my hand. But I have no urge to end your life. Youíre simply curious. Curiosity may have mutilated the cat, but I assure you, youíre perfectly safe.
We have little time left. Iím going to finish my story and then you can go. Having been told that I thought about killing you, Iíd say youíre ready to leave. I see youíve stopped sweating. I expected it would be running off of you like my victimís blood from his wounds. Youíre looking awfully pale, though. Do I intimidate you, because I can kill a man, disassemble him and show no remorse? I do show remorse. I feel just awful about leaving a pile of organs to be put in a casket and buried. It is comforting, at least for me, to remember them carrying him away in small coolers when I called. It took four or five. Maybe six. I watched from my house. Not much longer now.
For all purposes of being alive, the man was dead. His eyes were half closed. His chest, pumping blood and tiny bits of flesh and bone, was having slower and rasping through the new throat I had given him. He tried to speak but his words were lost in drowned gibberish. I had accomplished my mission without so much as a scream from him. I unbuttoned the remnants of his blood soaked robe. It almost felt as if I were undressing a woman. Iím not a homosexual, but thatís how much I enjoyed it. His gaping cuts looked much worse, beautifully worse without the shirt blocking them. I saw ribbons of fabric shoved inside the wounds. I took the filleting knife and I shoved it into his belly with precision, with a quick flick of my wrist and lower arm just below his belly button. It could have been air or something escaping, perhaps even scentless flatulence, because there was a wet pop when I pierced him. He was so far gone that he merely grunted and groaned, mumbling and gargling. I ignored it. It felt as if I had put the knife into a tub of melting ice cream. It slid in easily, almost as if he were made of butter. I leisurely pushed the knife forward, pulling it back, pushing it forward, pulling it back, sawing the flesh open and peeling it back with my fingers until I got to his stab wounds. I tapped the filleting knife against the butcherís knife jutting out of his pectoral muscle. He opened just like a coat does when it is unbuttoned. He unfolded, exposing his interior anatomy of purplish organs. Neatly coiled intestines, tucked into his abdomen and glistening in the lights. His pink ribcage. Quaking lungs, pulsating slowly but still faster than his heart. I saw things I had never seen before...an ovular organ that I assumed was his stomach, and a few smaller, dark colored organs. It was nothing like a text book anatomy. It was a bloody, slimy garbage pile inside him. I shoved my hands inside him and wiggled my fingers around. It made slick, squishing sounds. Like a baby chewing gum. They were warm and very slippery. Rather heavy. They smelled oily. Like oversized, overcooked noodles. They plopped from my fingers as I struggled to pull them out of him. I lifted them up to my face and then let them sift through my digits like sand. I took my sweet, sweet time and tugged them out of his body, hand over hand as if I were pulling a rope toward me, until I had made a wet pile next to his body. When I had emptied him, I could see the floor. That was when he died. I dropped the knife to the floor where it clattered noisily, making me jump. The blade was red and crusted with already drying blood. I called him a stupid fucker and spat on his partially opened eyes, and then I went home to wash up. As simple as that. I left him splayed open like a dead frog in a Biology class. I had dissected him.
So there you have it. You got what you came for. I see a few bits of regurgitation on the floor there. Itís to be expected. Itís not a story for the weak of heart. In case youíre wondering, I was caught because my fingerprints were left on both knives, as well as his body parts. And now here I am, and here Iíll stay until the day I die. It was very nice meeting you. I hope you got the information you needed to write a story about me. Now if youíll excuse me, I need to speak with my psychologist. I found a magnificent pen that I would like to show her. Itís one of those sharp ones that you dip in ink. It was lying in the hallway. But thatís not your problem, is it? You donít force me to take sedative pills. You donít ask me questions about my sanity or insanity. You donít jam shots into my arms to calm me down when I cry about things. The guard will show you out. Take care of yourself. This is New York City. A dangerous place. So watch yourself. You know, there are some real psychopaths in the world today.




------
If this means what I think it means, I usually write horror and action adventure, and I enjoy placing my characters into situations mixing the two. I have been known to let the occasional emotional drama story slip out, but don't expect too many. I'm a bullet and blood, guts and gore kind of guy.



Comments

The following comments are for "the Cure for the Urge"
by Zombiekiller

I almost wet myself
I read your profile before I read your story, so I think it kind of ruined it. I'm always a little slow, so I probably would not have noticed the definite Stephen King influence. But I think it was a little too heavy. I've noticed King has a strong element of repetition in his writing, which you used as well. The descriptions were the part I liked best. It was so visceral, it was just . . . gross. And the last line was hilarious. Anyway, I loved it.

( Posted by: Washer [Member] On: March 5, 2003 )





Add Your Comment

You Must be a member to post comments and ratings. If you are NOT already a member, signup now it only takes a few seconds!

All Fields are required

Commenting Guidelines:
  • All comments must be about the writing. Non-related comments will be deleted.
  • Flaming, derogatory or messages attacking other members well be deleted.
  • Adult/Sexual comments or messages will be deleted.
  • All subjects MUST be PG. No cursing in subjects.
  • All comments must follow the sites posting guidelines.
The purpose of commenting on Lit.Org is to help writers improve their writing. Please post constructive feedback to help the author improve their work.


Username:
Password:
Subject:
Comment:





Login:
Password: