Never Fear

by Heather Graham

  16

  Cyprianophobia

  Fear of venereal diseases

  Ed Deangelis

  Thunder rumbled along the darkened sky. The alley I had chosen was well hidden. Many of the alleys in New York City were filled with various clutter that blocked the view of any who passed them. It made it easy to take her to a secluded spot. The concrete was wet from an earlier shower, and the smell of trash filled my nostrils, but that was not what made my hands shake: it was the aged hooker before me. I spent hours searching from one whore to another until I found one I knew was tainted, and also did not have a pimp watching her. Pimps cared a lot for their property, and had proven themselves to be very dangerous. The hooker I eventually picked had just spoken to me, something about hurrying up, but I could care less what she said.

  My mind was focused on my goal, my mission, to rid the city of filth, to protect the unknowing and the ignorant, to save the innocent. These thoughts, these ideals, helped to quell the gnawing fear that writhed in my gut. I watched as she leaned against the wall, thrusting her hips toward me. Fifty dollars exchanged hands, along with the expressed desire to go down on her, and indeed, down I was going, but for reasons she would never guess. And would never ever understand.

  She raised a worn skirt up and draped it over my head. The feel of the worn and filthy cloth made me shudder. Who knew what was on it. But this filthy rag was in truth a blessing. Her line of sight to me was blocked by her own clothing. That made the sleight-of-hand I used to retrieve the knife that lay hidden within my windbreaker so much easier. I leapt up, startling her. Her eyes were focused on mine, a look of shock and confusion filling them. She did not see the knife coming, but she certainly felt it as it punctured her throat. I heard a soft wet pop, and I knew my aim had been true. I had punctured her trachea.

  Her eyes grew wide and her body jerked as my knife pushed deeper until I felt the tough resistance of bone. All that escaped her mouth was a bubbling sigh. Oh, how I love that sound. My other hand came up and slammed her head back into the brick wall she had been leaning against. I knew it was over, but she didn’t understand that yet. Her eyes crossed, dazed for a moment from the impact and the trauma. I only needed a moment. The knife slipped free of her neck so easily. The wound closed, but bubbling blood soon began to leak out. I brought the knife lower, just under her breast. My hand guided the blade into her pliant flesh. It parted so easily, I hardly had to push at all. Then I began to penetrate her, over and over again, for the last and final time, a fitting way for her to end. Fear and revulsion fueled my anger and hate.

  She struggled for a bit longer, but her strength began to ebb rapidly, and defeat ultimately settled into those dimming eyes. I removed my gloved hand from her mouth. Dropping the knife, I grabbed her body as it began to slump, making sure not to draw it to myself. It was already bad enough that I had to touch her in the first place.

  “Shhhh, it’s almost over, there is no need to fight anymore, just relax. It’s almost over.”

  I whispered words to calm the fear in those eyes as I squatted once more, lowering her to the ground. She was scared, and I did what I could to ease her fear of the darkness encroaching upon her sight. It would be cruel to allow someone to die alone and scared; I was no monster.

  A few moments passed, and I watched as the light left her eyes. Her chest rose and fell in short irregular spasms until finally it settled. I let out a sigh of relief before my gaze gave the surrounding alley a quick glance. I knew no one would be out this late, or at least in this alleyway, but better to be safe than sorry. I had learned long ago awareness of my surroundings was needed at all times. Without that awareness, innocent people could get hurt, and that thought was one I did not wish to linger upon. The area was secure for now, and my righteous task was not yet over.

  I turned my gaze back to the cooling body. My gloved hands reached out, grasping her ankles. I began pulling her body flat, dragging her in a pool of her own blood. My hands shook a bit as I saw all the fluids. But I calmed myself, remembering under the leather gloves there was a second level of protection, surgical gloves, they would keep me safe from infection. I gazed at her blank face, searching for the signs I knew were there. My body quaked as I found them. Small, fluid-filled lumps painted over with thick layers of lipstick bunched around the corner of her mouth. The very sight of them made my stomach twist, and my hands, which had begun to calm, once more began to quiver. But I stilled the shaking with the knowledge of my purpose. I even chuckled slightly at my own thoughts. Still afraid, even after years and over a hundred cleansings. Yes, I was still afraid, but sometimes fear was a good thing, it kept me sharp, and reminded me, my goal was one worth fighting for.

  The knife cut quickly across her mouth, a simple X shape. The blade slid down through the soft tissue of the upper and lower lips until the tip pushed through her gums and scraped across her teeth. Then moved lower. I breathed in deeply, steadying myself before peeling up that skirt. Gray lumps of warty, cauliflower-looking flesh greeted my eyes.

  She was infested! My insides coiled, my chest no longer rose and fell, and fear at least for moment stole my desire to breath. The fear that by drawing breath I was going to catch her filth. But I had seen this foul thing before and had conquered it, and I would do so again this time. I had to; I needed to. I cut across her hairy, diseased-covered snatch, marking her, warning those that would find her.

  With that done, I grabbed her side. Despite her small size, I grunted with the effort required to roll her over and expose her backside. Her skirt was already bunched up and I could see the filth had traveled there as well. Three large growths ringed her anus. I made quick cuts, marking this area as well. My work was done, I stood and gazed around, making sure I had dropped nothing, making sure I was not stepping in any blood. No trace, no sign left, other than her. I bent down to clean my knife on her skirt, then stopped. Her eyes: they were staring at me, accusing me.

  “Stop staring at me,” I snarled. “I didn’t want to do this. You made me. Your choices, your actions, and your... filth!”

  Rage overcame caution, and my knife slashed out over and over, the razor edge tearing through the soft, wrinkling flesh of her face. The attack was savage and short, ending with trickles of blood mingling with the mixture of liquids that oozed from her ravaged eyes. I stumbled back, my breath ragged. I should have learned to control my anger, but sometimes it got the best of me. Quickly I reached down, wiping my knife off on her skirt before sheathing it again inside my windbreaker. It was time to hurry home. The walk to my car would take a while, but that was ok. I had done my research and knew all the back ways to go to keep my interactions with others to a minimum.

  It rained hard that night, and rain always helped me sleep. The droplets of water drummed out a soothing beat. The knowledge of what had been achieved sent a feeling of satisfaction throughout my entire being, the kind of feeling a solider gets when he returns from a successful mission and is once more safe and sound. Feeling proud, I drifted off into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  The gentle rays of the sun kissing my face woke me. I wanted to lie in my bed a little longer, but there were still many things to do, precautions to take. My knife looked clean, but it was not. And I knew something about being clean. My mother had made sure of that. A couple hours soaking in a jar of bleach should make sure that even if blood somehow had seeped into the cracks and crevices, it would be removed or degraded to the point where any DNA that had gathered would be useless. The clothes I had worn consisted of a simple pair of black Crocs, cheap Walmart pants, a black short-sleeved shirt, my windbreaker, and a New York Yankees’ baseball cap. These things were all very common in New York City. They were stashed inside a thick plastic bag. I had undressed before getting in the car, switching to some simple running shorts, white tank top, and sandals. The Crocs were simple. Some bleach on them, followed by a wash would make them clean. The clothing, on the other hand, well, those could always be washed, then scattered around town, far aw
ay from my home or where I did my work. There was also a giant furnace that the old apartment building still used, conveniently located next to the apartment’s laundry room in the basement. That furnace had handled many clothing-related problems for me.

  I placed my knife in its bleach bath alongside its bleach-stained sheath, letting them soak and allowing toe bleach to eat away the invisible, tainted blood. The rest of my morning went fast: only a quick shower, since I had not gotten any fluids on me from the filthy beast. The urge to fully cleanse my body was suppressed. I stared into the mirror after I was clean, looking over myself. I was nothing special, almost six feet tall, with trimmed, short brown hair and blue eyes, which tended to switch from gray or green depending on what I wore. Stocky was a term I chose to use to describe myself, weighing in around 230–240 pounds. Most of the weight was carried in my gut. Little fat was carried on my arms and legs, a modicum of muscle instead showing on them. I flexed in front of the mirror, giving a sly smile and a wink.

  It had been hard to look at myself in the mirror in the early days, the weight, the guilt of what I had done almost destroyed me. But after a while, after days of self-doubt and worry and countless hours of making myself sick at what I had done, I came to the realization that I did what needed to be done. There were so many evils in this world, but the world and the system that people create are flawed. By doing what I was doing, I made the world safer, less scary. To remove as much filth as I could, I had to remove those who carried and transferred it. The world was cleaner. I was cleaner by doing what I was doing. People were being saved.

  Afterward, I was able to mail a bunch of transcripts I’d typed up for the local public broadcasting station, something I did often to put some extra change into my pocket. My main job was writing for one of the local papers, nothing special, just various ads and other such things that people paid the paper to have listed. Simple work: no headliners for me, but it was easy and paid all right. Most importantly, it allowed me to focus on my true purpose: my higher calling, as I liked to think. I strolled out of my apartment on the third floor and was instantly assaulted by a small, twiggy teen named Susie.

  “Hi, Mr. Connor.” She skipped over to me. Her gangly frame was dressed in some jeans and a T-shirt with some cartoon figure on it.

  Susie O’Neill was a spunky, young teen who lived in the apartment across from mine. I think she had turned thirteen this year, and her mother and father, Liam and Lindy O'Neill were great people who always invited me over for dinner. But then again, the entire apartment complex invited me over, many of them attempting to find me a woman. I was blessed to have found this complex. Not only did it have amenities that aided me in my purpose, but the people living here were right out of a movie. Everyone knew and liked everyone. I was constantly enjoying community events in the small fenced-in backyard of the complex. It was the closest thing I had ever had to a real, loving family. Well... my mother loved me, but that was different, and not something I wished to dwell upon.

  “Hey, Susie, what are you doing?”

  “Not much, Mr. Connor. My parents want me to go get the mail. Are you going to the cookout today? I know Mr. Guter is gonna make his beloved brats, and I am sure everyone else is going to bring something. My mom is even making her seven-layer dip.”

  Susie hopped back and forth on her pink sneakers as she spoke. She always had so much energy. The cookout had been forgotten. My mind had been focused on last night’s task, so much so that I did not even remember that someone had slid the flyer under my door a few days ago.

  “I’m not sure I can attend. I’ve been busy the last couple of days and am rather drained. But you know how much I like Mr. Guter’s brats, and your mother’s seven-layer dip. I guess I could pick something up and make an appearance, but I need to get some things taken care of. I’ll see you later tonight, Susie.”

  “Bye!” Susie called out to me as I headed down the stairs, favoring them to the elevator in a small effort to make my gut shrink a bit more.

  I first headed down to the basement, where I happened to run into a few other members of my apartment complex: Mrs. Lansky from 4A and Tommy from 2B. We made small talk for a while as I did some laundry. Our conversations revolved around the upcoming community cookout tonight, and, as always, with Mrs. Lansky nagging about needing to find me a nice woman. Her jabbering was tolerated because I knew she meant well. But a woman would only complicate things, in my already complicated life. Thankfully, they soon left, allowing me to take my small, plastic-sealed bag of goodies and enter the furnace room. The lock had long ago been broken. The items were disposed of quickly enough. A simple pair of black cloth gloves I had stuffed in my pocket made sure I never left fingerprints on the furnace door or anywhere inside.

  Once all my laundry was taken care of in one way or another, I dropped it off in my apartment before heading out to run a few day-to-day errands. My last stop was to grab a couple bags of chips and two twenty-four packs of various sodas to bring to the cookout. It was approaching 7 p.m., and the sun was almost down. The days were getting warmer, and I was enjoying my stroll back to my home. The streets were busy. The sound of traffic and humanity filled my ears. A smile spread across my face, while my mind wandered. Looking around, I saw families walking, smiling, all types of people milling about. Single men and women going about their own business, and my chest swelled with pride. Because of me, the streets were clean. The whole city was cleaner, and these people could go about their day, ignorant of the filth that had been removed from their home by yours truly. They were safe. No one was afraid. But then again most people were shielded from that fear by ignorance. They did not have the knowledge I did.

  In a way, they were lucky. They did not know what prowled the streets: loose, diseased women, ruining families and killing men, women, and even children, striking all indiscriminately. Whole families were ruined by the horrifying diseases. Mostly, the diseases were spread by women-of-the-night, and it is why I searched for them, because I knew that they did not care about the blight they hid within their bodies. They, and the various infestations of diseases they carried, were a horror that needed to be cleansed. I shook my head, clearing my mind. I was sweating profusely, and felt nauseated, but years ago when I began my quest I trained myself never to vomit. I could not afford to allow my fear, no matter how bad, to make me do such a thing. I breathed deeply, reassuring myself in soft whispers that everything was good. And that is when I heard the man calling out:

  “Modern day Ripper strikes again! Brutal slayer of prostitutes, claims another victim!”

  My head snapped toward the small newsstand and focused on the scrawny middle-aged man who had called out. I knew the papers, as well as the man, were referring to me. Once the cleansings I had done were exposed and linked, I had been deemed a modern-age Jack the Ripper by the press.

  A beeline was made toward the newsstand and its vendor. My eyes narrowed and a large vein on my forehead began to visibly throb as I read the banner headline.

  “New York Ripper strikes again!” Before I could read more of the article, the vendor once more caught my attention.

  “The madman killed another one. This one they found in a park in the worst area of Queens. But I hear from a friend that works for the Times that they just found another one in some alley today. What a frickin’ sicko, going around murdering hookers left and right.”

  Sicko? Madman? I was none of these. I was helping people! And this ignorant asshole was slandering me and my deeds, making all my hard, horrifying work into nothing more than the chaotic deeds of a lunatic! My fists clenched, ripping a bit of the cardboard container of the soda I was carrying.

  “He is not a sicko, nor a madman! Perhaps he is doing us a favor removing filth-mongers from the streets. I personally think he is a frickin’ hero. It’s about time someone did something to clean up this city. God knows the cops only deal with the violence. They never stoop low enough to really see the cancer spreading throughout this city. And when they d
o finally run into those horrifying creatures responsible for a majority of its spread, no substantial action is taken.”

  My voice had picked up in my short rant; my face burning as blood rushed into it, as anger filled my voice. The vendor stepped back behind his small stand, his eyes growing a bit wide in surprise at the acrimony that had crept into my voice.

  “Whoa there, son, think whatever you want. I’m... I’m just trying to sell some papers. If you wanna think of him as some kind of masked vigilante going around at night and cleaning up the city, that’s fine. I just don’t want any trouble.” His voice, unlike mine, had filled with fear. I felt a chill enter my body, cold and calming, leaving me numb but focused. My face was slack, lacking in emotion and yet it exuded cold, pure malevolence. It was the look of someone who had taken a life, and seemed like they would again with even the slightest provocation.

  But as quick as it had come, my rage melted away, his words and my own mind telling me to calm myself and shut my mouth.

  “I… I am sorry.” My chest rose and fell rapidly, my shirt soaked with sweat. “I did not mean to be so rude and speak with such anger. Had a bad day at work. I am sorry, sir.”

  I quickly turned and continued my walk back home. My breathing began to slow, and my profuse sweating abated, but relief and confusion soon settled in my mind. The news vendor had clearly not been a native New Yorker, otherwise I would have had a fight on my hands. No true New Yorker would have taken the abuse I had thrown at him, but confused I was nonetheless. I never understood, and still don’t understand, how people can’t see the good that I am doing, the selfless service I provide for the city. For Christ’s sake, I am risking my own life to give the people of the city peace of mind. But my internal rant was interrupted by the grumbling and rumbling of my gut, demanding one of Mr. Guter’s brats, which I knew he was just breaking out to put on the grill. A barely visible smile appeared and the once prominent vein on my forehead had vanished, as my thoughts now drifted toward the cookout, and the peace and joy I would experience there. Those people had become more than just neighbors to me--they were my family.