The Humanist

by Kenneth James Allen

  I instructed the taxi to drop me off a block from Isabelle’s house. I passed some notes to the driver, more than enough for the trip and a tip, and sashayed down a cracked and broken pathway between rows of houses. I knew this was the right place, thanks to a satellite image of the area I had found online. The end of the path would spit me out onto her street, and her house would be on the left.

  If social media was anything to go by, the street in question was a quiet suburban entity. And if her posts of her early evening activities were accurate, she’d be showing up at any time with a white terrier in tow.

  On my left, a chain link barrier gave way to a fence made of white palings. I peeked between the slats and saw the small, well-manicured yard—it was devoid of people. I neared the end of the path, about to walk into the street, and then stopped. She wasn’t there, and I wasn’t ready. My heart was beating wildly. Preparation and planning was coming undone because she had decided to change her routine. The waiting made me nervous, my head turned into a jumbled mess. Nausea grew inside me, worked its way up into my chest. Burning sensations in my throat.

  I stopped and turned around, making gestures that made me look like I was lost or had forgotten something at the other end. I turned. Then, I heard the noise. A fence opened behind me, followed by some encouraging words to an accompanying canine.

  I moved to the fence, hurriedly pulling on the gloves. My forehead was covered in sweat. Felt like I was standing on the surface of the sun. I had half a hand in one, my fingers stuck in the wrong holes, when I heard footsteps coming up behind me, rubber-soled footfalls mixed with a rapid patter of dog paws on the concrete. I abandoned the gloves, cursing myself for not keeping myself in control.

  As Isabelle neared my shoulder, I spun, Blackberry in hand, map application open. I held it to her face.

  “Excuse me,” I began, in my friendliest tone. I was conscious of my accelerated heart rate and what impacts this could have on my delivery, so I tried to slow it all down. “I’m a little lost. I’m looking for Short Street.”

  “Oh,” she said, confused. “That one rings a bell.” She took the phone from me and held it close. “I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.” She used the thumbwheel to scroll around the screen. “Ah, here!”

  She lowered the device to show me the map, but my response wasn’t words. I swung the open knife toward her. To be honest, I had my eyes shut, but I figured I would hit somewhere close to where I intended. It was surprising how easily the sharp tip pierced the skin.

  I opened my eyes. Hers were wide open, shock written across her face. She reached up to the handle, lifting her dog off the ground. It growled as she stumbled back. She tried to scream, but the blade had pierced her windpipe, making that a difficult task to accomplish. Blood flowed freely. I must have hit an artery, which was great because that would speed up the entire process.

  She was collapsing when I grabbed her. I gently laid her down against her fence. Her hands were around her neck. She looked up at me. She tried to swallow, speak, something.

  “Now,” I said. “This may hurt a little.”

  I moved her hands away from the knife grip and tenderly wrapped a hand around it. I took a deep breath and slowly twisted the handle. I fought against the restraints: tendons, skin. Bile rose in my throat. The thought of what I was doing replaying again and again in my mind. I yanked the knife out; a small spurt of blood followed. Her body shuddered, and she emitted a soppy, wet, gurgling groan. The dog pattered around with uncertainty and whined.

  The temptation to run was strong. However, I continued to oversee my victim, watching her life ilk away as I fought the urge to vomit. I’m not afraid to say this, but it was kind of beautiful, watching someone pass away. Her eyes glazed over and remained open. Silence returned. The dog was now laying down, its head on its owner’s stomach.

  Methodically, I used her clothes to wipe the blood off the blade, then carefully folded the knife’s blade into the handle. Death was in the knife’s history, and now it was in its present. It would also be there for the future.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was three blocks away, hair messed up, glasses discarded down a drain, and in the back of a taxi I flagged down. I was on my way to do something I never thought I would do, coming from something I never thought I could do. But I did. And I was strangely comfortable with the outcome.

  I felt nothing. No heartache, no feeling of remorse. Isabelle was a task, a checkbox, an action I needed to complete. I mentally ticked it off. One down. I guess on the surface it was sad. She was collateral damage. I suppose it should have upset me, but it didn’t. It felt as natural and normal as brushing my teeth. I pondered all of this on the drive over, even trying to force some feeling about what had happened, but I got distracted by a flock of ducks.

  I walked the rest of the way to Olivia’s parents’ house and stood outside in the shadows. The double-story brick home loomed in front of me, waiting for me. The white-framed windows were aglow with festivity, with a warm glow seeping out through every opening. Hedges lined the property’s perimeter. A white path parted the lush lawns like a runway, flanked by evenly-dispersed lights that lead me to the front door.

  I extracted the vial that Talon gave me, the one with the normal face, and tipped a few drops of the liquid in my mouth. It was tasteless, yet the effect was instant.

  The scene before me became a watercolor.

  I was an empty canvas.

  I was craving.

  Chapter 31

  But the front door wasn’t where I was heading. Instead, I skirted the household, fighting through foliage, and arrived at the rear entrance. Peering in, I could see the empty kitchen. I could make out the sounds of laughter and cheer beyond the double glazing. I would soon silence them all. That was the outcome. That was the requirement. It had to be that way—it just had to be.

  I leaned against the house and investigated the void that was the darkened backyard. It yawned open, wanting to swallow me. Shades of black bled together like strokes from a paintbrush.

  I took time putting on the gloves, ensuring each finger was in its right place. No point leaving prints or trying to remember what I needed to wipe down. I took a deep breath of the cold night air. Refreshing. Stinging.

  The door handle turned easily. No need to keep the doors locked in this neighborhood, I supposed. Affluent was the term I would use, and rightly so. Heat hit my face as I stepped through the entrance. The voices grew louder. I closed the door silently behind me.

  The professional kitchen spread out in front of me. Benches, cupboards, and appliances lined both walls. An island bench filled the space in-between. On top of it were several empty champagne glasses and a stainless-steel bucket of ice.

  Then I heard words. Footsteps coming from the far end of the kitchen. Feet. Coming down backward. More words shouting up, finalizing orders. Then she was in the kitchen. Olivia. Her head was in the fridge. She hadn’t seen me. She shut the door, bottle in hand. Then she turned around and let out a stifled scream.

  “Jesus Christ! You scared the shit out of me!” she scoffed. Her look of anguish quickly gave way to a smile. It was sliding off her face, her eyes off-kilter. Damn. If I had taken any more of that stuff, I’d be seeing unicorns pooping rainbows.

  I gripped my hands behind my back and attempted to maintain decorum. The sound of ice being shuffled. Her head grew large. It looked like a balloon. Arms were around me, embracing me, squeezing me.

  “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  I attempted to match her exuberance. When she pulled away, I tucked my hands behind me. Then she kissed me—long, deep. Her tongue snaked down my throat and into my chest. I gasped.

  She eased back. She held me by the shoulders and stared at me. A laser beam that burned my retinas.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I didn’t know what my pupils were doing, but she danced in time to my heartbeat.

  “Yeah,” I said, shaking my head and squeezing my eyes shu
t. “Just a...long day. Busy. That’s all. I’m okay, really. Excited to be here. Thanks for inviting me.” The words escaped in a jumbled mess.

  “Okay, okay, slow down. Sounds like you had a few shots before coming over.” She smiled. Damn that smile. “I get it. Meeting the parents is a big deal.”

  “Such a big deal,” I repeated.

  Then her face changed. She was inspecting my shirt, touching it. “Eek, what is that?”

  Shit.

  Inspected her fingers.

  “Oh...damn. They were painting something in my building, and I think I must have nudged it on the way past, and then, you know, taxi cab. Can’t trust those. I hope it’s still okay for me to be here.”

  “Of course.”

  She went to the sink to wash her hands. A contaminated crime scene. That turned out to be quite an unexpected revelation. It would make sense that Isabelle’s blood would be in the house. She unknowingly did me a favor.

  “While you’re here,” she said, drying her hands on a kitchen towel, “You can help me bring up some things.”

  I pushed myself against the island bench, hands still clasped at my back. “How about you take some things up? I’ll get the next bottle of bubbles ready for you.”

  “So you can be the hero and bring it in?” she said with a wink. She sauntered toward me, her limbs breaking off and reattaching in a different order. “Would you be my big, strong hero?” A leg for an arm, a foot against her face, brushing her hair away.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “Umm. You just take that stuff upstairs, and I’ll be anything you want me to be.”

  When I looked up, she was gone, but her voice was as clear as if she was right in front of me. “I’ll be right back, then.” Slow. Sultry. Under different circumstances, I would have fucked her right there in her parent’s kitchen, right in the same house where I was about to murder people. I was such a badass.

  “The champagne bottle, badass!”

  I spun. Sonja leaned against the doorway leading out into the yard. She crossed her arms as she chewed some gum.

  “When did you get here?”

  “I’ve always been here, Atlas. Besides, I knew you couldn’t do this by yourself. Knew you didn’t have it in you.”

  “I did Isabelle, didn’t I?”

  “More or less,” she said. She blew a bubble and it burst. A deflated balloon hung from her mouth. I stared, mesmerized.

  She pointed. “You haven’t got much time.”

  Time. Always the enemy. I rounded the bench and eased the bottle from the ice, my gloved hands slipping on the wet bottle. I hurriedly removed the top and quietly released the cork into my hands. I dug out the second vial from my pocket and tipped the contents in, some finding their way over the lip and dribbled down the neck. Goddamn it.

  “I just knew you’d fuck this up!”

  “Jesus, Sonja, you’re not being very supportive.” She nodded at me.

  Arms around me. I was spinning, feeling weightless. Lips, kissing, zero gravity.

  “Who are you talking to, baby?” Her lips didn’t move.

  I suddenly became very self-conscious that I was staring at her mouth, so I gave each part of her face due attention. It must have been good enough.

  “Come and toast with us,” she said.

  “You guys have this one, this last one. Then you can introduce me, the wonderful me. It’ll surprise the shit out of them!”

  Then she vanished. I wasn’t sure if I was hallucinating, but the bottle was missing, and I was alone. Even Sonja had left me. I faintly heard the clinking of glasses followed by a boisterous cheer. The time had come. It was time to make peace.

  I heard noises emanating from the short staircase that led the lounge room. Shouting, groaning. A bang, then a solid mass falling onto the wooden floorboards. Then smaller noises followed, heavy footsteps on the stairs, hands hitting walls. Olivia appeared at the doorway. Sweat bled from her face, and her eyes were glazed over.

  “Atlas...help me...” she gasped. Damsel in distress.

  She stumbled toward me, six arms waving wildly, blurred. Her mouth was where her eyes should be, her ears missing. A horribly disfigured object hurtled itself at me. I steadied myself. It fell forward, legs discontinuing to work. I caught it. I caught her. Olivia. Mutant. Heavy in my arms, her full weight.

  I called her name—at least I think I did. There was no response. I turned her in my arms so she faced away from me. I placed one hand over her mouth and squeezed her nose shut with the other. It was a difficult task, given my condition, and we ended up a tangled mess on the floor. I maintained my grip on her, or at least what I thought was her. She didn’t fight. She didn’t squirm. She gave up. Her life was given up.

  After three minutes—at least, I think it was three minutes—I pulled myself up. Time moved at a volatile pace. The light changed in the kitchen. Shadows shifted and transformed. I was thirsty. I drank from the tap, but it did nothing to quench my thirst, did nothing to stop the desert expanding in my throat.

  Suddenly, I was upstairs in the lounge room. A woman was slumped over the metal frame of the coffee table, the surface now a million pieces of glass that radiated from her body. I crept around her body, the glass shards crunching under my feet. I pulled the knife out of my pocket and ejected the blade. I stabbed her four times in the back of the neck. Blood spurted out with every strike. It was goddamn messy, but it didn’t bother me. She was a mannequin. Lifeless. Non-existent. I pictured the watermelon. I was in my apartment stabbing the knife into a watermelon. The blade pierced the skin easily and sunk in. Deep. There was no sound apart from my grunts as I drove the blade into her. I hit bone. Another victim.

  A young man, near the front door, was lying awkwardly against the wall. Was he trying to escape? Perhaps. His body was flat, but the side of his face leaned against the wall. His hand was around his neck. He looked to be the same age as Olivia. But then his features disappeared. I grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulled it back, and ran the blade across his throat. A thin trail of blood followed. I decided it wasn’t good enough and repeated the process. Back and forth until bits of jagged skin flew loose with every stroke.

  I stood. Blood covered my clothes. My gloved hands were slick with red. I almost dropped the knife. To my left was the real victim in all of this—Mr. Grant Taylor. You. You had fallen backward. You were wearing a powder blue vest and matching pants. You hadn’t removed your tie yet, but it was loose. You had overturned a small table as you fell into unconsciousness. The table’s residents, porcelain figurines from a holiday, lay in unrepairable states around you.

  So many signs of a struggle. More evidence to support the story that would later be told to the police and sold to a jury.

  I placed the knife in your open hand and stepped back, gently peeling off my glove, ensuring the bloody mess stayed contained. The latex ball ended up in my pocket. I didn’t need to be careful with it at that point. Everything on me was doomed for a fireplace or metal drum, anyhow. I squatted down and forced your hand around the knife handle, ensuring a clean set of bloody prints ended up there.

  I stood, admiring the mess around me.

  And that was that.

  Almost.

  Chapter 32

  I approach my chair, taking in Taylor’s cold face.

  “And what more can I possibly share? The details at this point are a little fuzzy, but I can tell you I wiped the knife grip clean and pushed it into your hand, ensuring your fingers left a nice clean print. I made an anonymous call to the cops, saying I heard a disturbance at your address. I bribed the pawn shop owner to say you bought the knife from her months before the killings. You may remember her vivid description of you when she was on the witness stand.”

  I pause and gauge his reaction, but his head is down, his concentration on his hands resting on the table.

  “Tell me, Grant. What was it like?”

  “What was what like?” he asks matter-of-factly.

  “Waking to the sounds of a d
ozen squad cars zeroing in on your house. Of hearing your front door being kicked in. Of seeing the bodies as your regained consciousness. Of feeling the cold steel wrapped around your wrists as they slapped the cuffs on you.”

  He looks up at me. Sighs. “It’s something that never leaves you. That sound of metal clicking into metal, of being pushed into the back of a cruiser. Of never being released into the free world again.”

  I clap my hands together. “And that’s it. That’s everything.”

  His eyes follow me around the room. “That can’t be everything.”

  “That’s why you’re here. That’s why the state is about to execute you. That’s what happened to your family. They were collateral damage. They died because of you.”

  “No, they died because of you! Because of the actions you took!”

  “To-may-to, to-mah-to, Grant. You can look at it any way you want. But the result is you’re about to be led away to a chamber, strapped down onto a gurney, and a deadly cocktail will be pumped into your veins. You know, it’ll be a damn pity I can’t stay to watch it. Oh, and don’t expect a call from the governor either. Trust me, I’ve paid him up.” I cock my head to the ceiling and tap my chin. “A lot less than the judge, your lawyer, and the warden, mind you, but I suppose it’s all relative.”

  We stare at each other. Grant’s eyes modulate from a cold blue to a deep brown. His nose grows big and wide, and then lean and pointy. His cheeks puff out and retract. His facial hair stands up and then retracts.

  “Is there anything you want to say?” I ask, wanting to elicit a reaction from his features.

  “What do you really want to tell me?”

  I scoff. “There’s nothing else, Grant. Nothing. That’s it. I may have left off a bit here and there, but that’s it.”

  “There must be more. Must be one more thing.”

  “I just wanted you to know. That’s all.”

  Grant puffs out his cheeks, taking in deep breaths.

  “Guards!” he calls, all the while locking onto my stare. He turns his head slightly and calls again louder this time. “Guards!”