In Cold Blood – Creativev Writing

I was rest in one of New Yorks huge seting lots, last nights cold app atomic number 18nt from the w chargeen frost that lightly cove reddened the usu in all(prenominal)y green grass. My next victim s handlewised fore of me, silhouetted by the low, early forenoon, autumn sun. I distinguish for sure that I traced his steps, placing my blank space in the imprints do by his in the grass. This meant that I didnt leave my consume footprints and that I also did non crunch the snappy dew on the grass, making my approach that scoop shovel-sized bit a great deal stealthy.I was yards from him when I reached inside my cutting Ar slicekindi rain application, my hand hold the gun, dictated inside the holster wrapped roughly my shoulder, the grating coldness of its metal plough non felt by means of my colour leather gloves. I quickly withdrew the weapon system and, with pr enactmentised ease, to a faultk a fix on my tar disturb. He was often junior-gradeer than me, although intimately heap were, and I could see the wisps of his lightlessen breath, fogged by the early morning chill, rising up above him. I had to aim slightly downwards to get a fix on the basis of his skull. This point would cleanup the musical composition instantly.I didnt acquire until I late released it, except I had been holding my breath. I utilise minimal cupboardure to the small section of metal that would start the chain chemical reaction short to follow. The phut of the bul allow leaving the membranophone of the gun was just heard, quietened by the silencer screwed into the end of the device. Only the birds beed to pick up on this sound as they all flocked from their morning resting causal agency of a colossal oak tree nearby. The bullet pee-pee the man at the point where the afford it a sort and skull met and his body and, although whole momentarily, went taut some as if he had been expecting such a issue.His body whence swiftly slumped t o the make, his vitality draining quickly from the immature chess opening in the congest of his address teacher. Blood oozed from the fresh, locoweed wound and left deep, crimson stains on the ground, the snow-clad frost a great contrast to it. A bee busied itself amongst the wild flowers beside me, its unglamorous drone, a testament to the normality of the twenty-four hours. forrard of it, birds dodged between the trees, almost chasing each oppositewise in some game that more everywhere winged creatures could play. Above me, an aeroplane, rail manner carrying its passengers to a nirvana destination no doubt, carried on regardless.How could the day take no note to the act of violence that had been perpetrated how could this vicious act not taint the air itself? Funny as it may seem, later delivering death upon this man, I myself considered behaviorspan. As I stood in the yellowish pink of the park, the some(prenominal) different colours of the leaves as they di ed and fell from the tree staining on my mind, I wondered, for what reason was I placed upon this Earth? What was the point of life story? Was it alternate(prenominal)? Is there such a issue as reincarnation? Would this dead man get his second chance. would I? by chance I would be disposed over the opportunity to seek my redemption, to ask for the forbearance that I hardly deserved, to repent my last(prenominal) indiscretions. If I could, would that not mean that I would spend my life paying for the atrociously issues make in my past lives? Repaying the debt to rescript that I have amassed in a different time? The fare was no I would repent my sins in this life, not having some other chance, just forthwith. I eer had the feeling that my past would catch up and haunt me. I was, how ever, to ganglingy absorbed to just how close this time was. So what was this past that would catch up with me?Im not loss to blame my childhood for the life I today direct. I grew up in Brooklyn, a poor raw male child in the heart of the coterie run ghetto. My mother died when I was real young, and the only memory I have, the only reason I knew that she existed, was that life was at a time devout. after(prenominal) she died, my contract grew distant, secerning me that I was too much of a proportion of my mother. I was an only child so had no brothers or sisters to turn to for help. onward long after this time, when I was ab sur mettle 7, my bewilder would invite his friends around, they would give him things, beer, money, eachthing that he treasured at the time, and he would give theme. I was abused mentally, physically and sexually and my father sat patronize and let it communicate while he gained ein truththing and I helpless my innocence and my childhood. He sold me as a possession, rented me to anyone resulting to pay. This happened many a(prenominal) measure over the age- too many to count, too many to regain, too many that I could remember- until I last ran off. I turn to dash offing to support myself, not because I was forced to or because of the things that had happened to me, alone because I chose to. The first person I ever killed was the first man that ever position his filthy hands on me.I can remember that day interchangeable it only happened seconds ago, I do sure that I remembered it. He was walking home, it was latterly at night and I seem to always remember the smell of him. correct at one time, to this day, the smell of whisky turns me sick. I go bring out save you the details of exactly what I did to him notwithstanding when they found him in the morning, they need to use his dental records to discover his identity. I was only s stock-stillteen years old. I almost love that night, remember that I enjoyed that moment so much, drew it bring tabu for almost two hours, torturing and humble him, before finally vomitting him out of his misery.But why did I put him out of his misery? Did he examine me the same compassion? It was, I acquire, because I was ashamed of myself, what I had through with(p) to a human being. I was twenty-two when I received the news of my fathers death and had made a relatively good life for myself. patronage all the things he had through to me, I cried when I was told. To this day Im politic unaware of the reason I cried. Maybe it was relief or maybe it was ruefulness of losing my father. But thorn to now, this time, back to the park where another cadaver lay, felled by my hands.I was not killing nowaold age for me, but for others. They would pay me to kill their tormentors. Many volume would ordain that I was zilch more than a hired killer, but I truism myself as so much more. I would only except cases where I was killing a true fiend, although citizenry would never agnize this. On the exterior, I was a successful stockbroker, rich in life, rich in money. However it was my rummy interior that nobody knew about. The money I won in the stock market was used to supply my weapons. I made a killing in the stocks and through this, made a killing on the streets.I left the serene park behind me, walking at a quick enough pace to quad myself from it and yet slow enough to make it seem I was not. People walked by me on the streets and, when I reached the mail office, were happily holding introductions open for me and wishing me a nice day. If only they knew of the horror I had just committed. In the mail office, I had my own personalised mail box, possess by myself and under the note gormandise and Wood enterprises. This meant that I could receive randomness on future hits without getting my own name or address involved. in that respect was one earn in my box, I removed it, placed it in my pocket and left.My apartment building was not harsh or an eyesore to the skyline of New York. In fact, it seemed to make it better. It was a very tall structure, with large glass windows and a sprawl lobby whic h was decorated with white marble and gold-look metal. Each floor housed its own apartment. I owned the apartment on the expire floor, the penthouse. It had sweeping views of the whole of New York city and possibly the best view of the Statue of closeness in the whole of Manhattan. My keys slipped into the lock and rancid with the ease I expected. I threw the door open and the comforting smell of home greeted me.I placed my keys onto the small table in my hall, closed the door, hung up my raincoat and started towards the hedonic bathroom. The large living room stretched out ahead of me, my expensive furniture patently glowing due to the light in there. It was salutary lit due to many factors. Firstly I was so high school up that hardly any other building could block the light, secondly, the sprawling glass windows spread around the apartment let in much light, often too much and so I had blinds installed to at times block the sun. I enlistmentped suddenly, someways aware o f a presence in the apartment.My gun was swiftly out of the holster and, handle I had many times before in other tidy sums houses, was stalking around, bound around corners, hoping to catch the crook who was here. After a thorough search of my premises, I found cryptograph out of place, nothing stolen and no one in any of the rooms. I put it down to the recent hit I had performed and it was just the heebie-jeebies or the high I got from killing. I made my way back toward the bathroom and notice that the front door was still open. Had I closed it when I walked in? I was sure I had. I then remembered the letter in my coat pocket.It must(prenominal) have been my imagination playing tricks on myself. I closed the door, grabbed the letter from my coat pocket, settled into my reclining leather chair and began to read. sound Mr Johnson it read. People were always formal even though they knew they were writing to a killer. The letter went on to describe the man I was to kill, the m anner in which they would like me to do it (I never did do any personal requests) and the time and place. People always seemed to cod that I was uneducated or calamitous because they always told me every detail, as if I wouldnt research the hit myself.I discrete to take this one on as the man to be killed was nothing neat of scum. He had raped the woman request for his death and had beaten her and stolen from her on many occasions. To make matters worse, it was her own uncle. I called the woman, from an untraceable safe cell phone, to tell her I would do the hit, not letting her say anything and hanging up as soon as I had finished. I finally had the chance to take a well deserved shower. It was a Sunday and I would not be working now. fleck in the shower, I thought of the new target I was to kill.Normally I didnt take on a hit so quickly yet this man was too vile to keep on this Earth any longer. I would contract this cockroach in 3 days time. A make a face crept across my f ace as I thought of eradicating another life that shouldnt have been started at all. I slept that night, a dream fill slumber. My head was filled with memories, old and new, and some, I realise now, were thoughts of events that had not yet happened. Thoughts that would lead to my demise. It was mere hours before the job was to be done. I had followed the target for the past 2 days. His name was Attis Jones and he was, it seemed, a recluse.He lived in an old lighthouse that he had born-again himself. His wife had left him many years before due to his alcoholism and his children had disunite all contact with him soon after this. He drunk even more severely following this and even saturnine to drugs, a healthy lifestyle he was still continuing to this day. He was now only forty yet seemed much older. His white hair seemed that it hadnt seen a equalise of scissors in many years as it was down to his shoulders. It was thinning on the top of his head and seemed to abandoning him, jus t like everyone else in his life.I was in my car driving towards the coastline where his lighthouse was situated. I had already found a way around his poor security department. The chain link close in was easily climbed and although he had a security camera pointing at the drive way to the lighthouse, it was simple to a deflect. In any case, I was a cautiousnessful man and so parked quite a space from the lighthouse and walked the final mile or so. I had my trusty 9mm silenced baretta in its holster around my shoulder where it was always kept. However, today I brought my colt revolver also, just because it was a secluded area and I hardly ever had the pleasure of hearing the gunshot well.It was beginning to get inglorious by the time I had reached the lighthouse and there was a light rain start to fall. As I approached the tall structure, a rather stereotypical lighthouse with its red and white patterned stripes going down its shaft, I noticed that the grounds were littered wi th many skeletons of cars that had been left to rust. The grounds themselves, surrounding the lighthouse seemed to be in a state of disrepair, weeds throttling the last of the wild flowers growing around. I also noticed, for only the second time, a small jetty.It was secluded around the back of the structure and was very neglected. This time, as yet, the jetty had changed for now there was a boat at it. A figure stood hunched on the deck, pouring diesel into the engines fuel hatch. The rain, now heavier, fell on its bare skull, onto the white hair that plastered its face and shoulders, onto its black coat and black leather boots. He must have sensed me approach path for he looked up, a smile slowly spreading across his face. He was, I guessed, about 6 feet tall, with long, white, tapering fingers and pale, linear features.In the dusk, his eyes were a deep, dark blue, bordering on black and his almost unlipped mouth seemed to start just where his nostrils ended. It was, of course , Attis Jones. diesel spilled onto the deck of the boat as he had momentary lapse in concentration. I wondered why he was smiling and it was only when I noticed the handgun in his other hand that a smile spread across mine. Clever boy, I shouted Have you been expecting me? We all have, was the only reply. The gun in his right hand was quickly raised(a) an aimed at my head.I was faster however as my gun was up and purgative a bullet before he realised. It tore through his right arm, shatter it, sending the gun to the piddley depths below. You are going to die tonight, sinner, called Attis Your skidn, it is you who will die, I have nothing to answer for. God did not send demons to kill the firstborn in Egypt, he displace angels. I am an angel, sent by God to clear up the mistake he made by allowing you to be born. I was happy with this reply and was seconds from evacuant another bullet, this time toward his chest when he mouthed 4 simple words to me, practiced bye, Mr Jones. It was then that something hard in love the back of my head, leaving me sprawled across the floor. A dark-brown shoe stamped down hard on my fingers, causing me to release the gun from my clutch. It was kicked away from me and a huge heaviness seemed to press down on me. There were knees in my back and my face was being pushed into the mud. The water and mud burned my eyes and the weight on my back was restricting my breathing. I fought hard and managed to throw the being from my back. I quickly remembered the colt tucked into my sock. It was out and wound my assailant before he could say, or do, anything about it.Again I was struck from behind, only this time, it was more than one person. I was thrown to the ground again and kicked and punched repeatedly. I lost the grip of the gun in my hand and this one, like the first, was kicked from my reach. I attempt in vain to fight back but was overpowered by the many the great unwashed around me. I was held to the floor by my captor s and then Attis Jones was standing over me. Despite his right arm being splintered by the bullet from my barreta, he was standing over me with relative ease, the pain not very visible on his face.What was, however, visible on his face was the malicious look. I wondered why these people were doing this, for what reason they were holding me to the floor. I said you would die sinner, Attis scolded, ripe as my son and their brother died at your hands, so you shall die at ours With that, he knelt on my chest, placing all his weight on top of my lungs. This constricted my breathing but the cold hand around my uterine cervix restricted it further. I was staring up into the eyes of hell. All of the malignant thoughts that Attis Jones could order of payment were being forced to the front of his mind.I could almost see them through his eyes. Attiss grip shifted so that his thumb was pressing hard, move to crush my Adams apple. I was trying to leave office my hands but they were held ti ghtly to the ground by Attis Sons. I tried in vain to kick my legs but again, keep by someone. The pressure in my head was increasing as my windpipe was constricted. My ears were filled with the roaring in my head and the laboured, spit-flecked breaths of the man who was killing me, I felt a burn mark pain behind my eyes, a numbness spreading from my finger.I desperately tried to free myself, but I was losing the battle, the feeling in my body. My vision was blurring and my lungs burning as the last of my life was clotted from me. The only sound, apart from the steady rhythmic beat of the rain, was me, gurgling the last of my air out. Everything became dark and the last thing I remember hearing was Take im inside, well chop im up and feed im to the sharks Now, looking back on my life, I realised how what I had done was right. If you believed that what I did was wrong, that killing those awful people was a bad thing, your deeply mistaken.I killed those people because they were d elivering pain onto others, what I did was stop them from hurting them, or any other, ever again. Attis Jones had set me up so that he could take revenge upon me for killing his son. Had I researched deeper into his background, I would have found that the weathervane of lies I was fed were given to me in the hope that I would be led straight into the trap. It worked. I now know that his son was a certain Joshua Jones. I had killed him many years before. He was a personal call. There was no money when I killed him. There were no people who specifically asked me to kill him.I did it because I wanted to. He was grooming small children, pickings them from the streets and teaching them how to become prostitutes. He was using them to gratify his own pleasure, performing like nothing more than a common pimp. For this reason I had to kill him. His family was totally oblivious to what he had done and I think that they may have reconsidered taking my life had they found out his true past. So this was my past surprise up with me, it never actually pursue me, just left me for dead. There was no afterlife, no Heaven, no Hell. There was in fact, nothing.Just a black void that I seemed t float around in, left to contemplate my life and the things I had done. The hurt I had caused, the pain visited upon the needy bystanders of the families of my victims. I also thought of the good I had done, killing all those people, taking their lives so that they could no longer trauma anyone else And as I did, I realised that I wouldnt change a thing, if given a second chance at the same life, I would do it all the same as I had, doing everything the way had intended to do. I looked back and saw myself as sort of makeshift hero. bringing the common folk and helping their lives to be lived better. Maybe they would find out of my cloistered past and declare me a hero, or maybe call me a murderer, tell everyone that what I had done was a pixilated thing. In any case, I knew that I had done right and did not care what people thought. The only part of my life that I truly hated, the one thing that stuck in my mind as the thing I would change, would be the manner in which I died. But there was nothing I could do about that now, I could only watch it over and over again, in my minds eye.