by Erik D'Souza
II
That was just over three weeks ago. I have evolved ten times over since meeting Sheila. Killing is easy and natural to me now. Brutality and mutilation is common play. No longer an animal, I have grown, I am an artist; the master of reality and insanity. I am taking my place in history by reserving a place beside Satan. A sick demon living among lambs.
A demon who has stuck to his plan.
The police are running scared, and in too many directions, like headless chickens. They are unsure how many serial killers they have on their hands. I am in the news every day. Sheila Watson is too, she is still in the thoughts of many. When she was alive, she was a shadow, a number that we all ignored. Now, in her death, we see her face, we feel her tragedy. Our hearts bleed for her.
And many others have bled too.
A prostitute’s body was fished from the mighty Mississippi. Her genitals had been crudely removed. Last night in Alabama there was a drive by shooting and a member of the Rock Gang was shot dead in his driveway. They barely made the morning papers, for they were not newsworthy. Slain hookers and gangsters aren’t a big deal; they fly under the radar of most honest citizens; Dead on the news one day, forgotten the next.
I’m washing down my medication with a cold beer. The combination builds courage and dulls my senses. I’m writing their names (if I know their name) and keeping a journal of my handiwork. All will be revealed on Easter day. I will be immortal; Alive and well in the fear that such a monster could exist. I was among you, and you were oblivious. I was walking on the same street as you, riding the same bus; I was standing in the line beside you at the pharmacy.
Someone (me) has mailed the authorities the shoes that the killer had worn during a violent home invasion. Lots of DNA evidence. I can imagine the prosecutor making me try on the shoes. “If the shoe fits, you must commit.” Podiatrists measuring my feet and under oath claiming that the imprint of my shoes are like fingerprints, unique to me. My state appointed defense lawyer screaming, “Objection, your Honor”, all while everyone is scared of being in the same room as me. They should be afraid. I’ll kill them all.
But this is all a fantasy, I won’t be alive long enough for them to ever prosecute me. I have envisioned my endgame. A senator from Louisiana will be giving a speech regarding religious freedoms on Easter day. The honorable politician has spent his career in the coffers of the NRA. He has done their bidding and built upon their empire of suffering. I say to you, “All who take up a sword will perish by a sword.”
I will return to the land of my birth, to where it all began, and hear the senator spew his propaganda. He will be number forty. I suspect that I will be gunned down moments after I end the senator’s existence. My journal will be discovered on my bullet-ridden corpse and all shall be exposed. Every brutal slaying described with intimate detail. Everything will be clear, and every detail has been premeditated. Even if they fail to kill me on that eventful day, the plague will have me before summer’s arrival.
I believe I have alluded to, but not yet been forthcoming regarding my illness. Cancer is eating away upon my brain. Two months ago a doctor informed me that there was no point treating the tumor and that I had about three months to live. He prescribed for me some heavy painkillers and sent me on my way.
Late one night, just over two weeks ago, I crept into his manor. It was a thousand times more majestic than Sheila’s quaint home. Six Greek columns, of the Corinthian order, adorned the front of his abode, hedges and fences blocked the public from seeing its full grandeur. I gained entrance through a basement window and strolled up his opulent stairs. I assumed that a silent alarm had notified the authorities of my presence. I granted myself seven minutes to complete my task.
I walked into the room where he slept, peacefully, beside his lovely spouse. She was surely his second wife, as she was at least half his age and had more work done on her face than the Sistine chapel. The good doctor was heavier than King Eglon of Moab, I was worried that my small caliber pistol couldn’t penetrate his blubber, I crept in closer so that I could dispatch him quickly with a well-placed headshot. Just as I raised my weapon, the phone rang. No doubt his security company was trying to raise the alarm. He awoke and was quick to recognize his predicament, but it was too late for him to protect himself. My hand twitched and the pistol discharged. His head jerked back onto his pillow and his wife arose with a shriek. She’s lucky that I have a strict diet of one victim per day or they would have waltzed hand-in-hand through to the great beyond. She was beautiful in her distress. I considered having her, but even I thought that would be too monstrous, and besides the clock was ticking. So I let her watch me consume the blood as it oozed from her husband’s head and I wished her adieu. I was wearing a band aid across the bridge of my nose, so I was fairly certain that her description of me would be muddled at best. He was number three.
Terminal brain cancer does funny things to a man. On top of the dementia (which is a dangerous symptom for someone in my profession), the nausea and restless nights, there are forces at work that focus my every thought towards my mortality. To question it, even though there is no answer. What would it take to become immortal?
There is only one way for a man to achieve immortality: to become a legend, to carve a place in history and be spoken of until the end of time. I have not been blessed the intelligence or skill to find a cure for cancer or solve world peace. My legend will need to be more sinister. Besides Jack the Riper is far more famous than Alexander Fleming or Anwar Sadat. I have become the Lent Killer. You will know my name.
My plan for tonight is to party. Strike in the early morning and get home late. With my chore done I can take tomorrow off and get back into it the day after. I can use the break.
It is important for a person in my position to relax once in a while.
Forty kills in forty days. And I’m just over half way there.
