Repayment

I’m scared but I know what you’re thinking.  Who cares about your feelings?  Who cares if you’re uncomfortable?  You’ve tortured.  Killed for the thrill of it.  Chased the innocent slowly, methodically.  It’s true.  It’s all true and more.  I’ve known sensations most other people never will.  I know what it smells like when blood flows so quickly that the victim gasps before they’ve registered what’s happening.  Iron lingering in the air.  The moment someone’s lights go out while their eyes are still fixed on mine.  I know what that looks like.  I suppose that’s why I’m here, curled up in a forgotten street corner hoping the universe won’t notice me.  Hoping the souls I’ve cut free won’t sense my presence.  If I’d known what could happen, would I have still done it?  I’d like to think I wouldn’t have but I’m not sure.  Even as they pursue me, I remember their demise with the fondness of a boy remembering his first ice cream truck visit.  Giddy and excited for the experience.

Light doesn’t hide me from them.  Walls don’t hide me from them.  Nothing can hide me from them.  I’m marked.  I can wash their blood from my hands a thousand times and they’ll still find me.  Moving is only prolonging the inevitable.  And yet, I find myself running again.  At first, I was running in the figurative sense.  Denying anything was wrong and continuing life as if it hadn’t been fatally altered.  Now, however, I must run quite literally.  Shadows stretch down the empty street, reaching for me.  I have no idea what will happen when they make contact or even how long I can realistically avoid it.  A couple of weeks?  A month, if I’m lucky.

Stay in motion.  Ignore the moans.  The cries from every corner.  Every space calls out to me for vengeance.  At first, I thought it was all in my head.  I thought I’d snapped.  Maybe the depravity of what I’d done was too much for my subconscious mind but, no.  I’m fine with what I’ve done.  Enjoyed it, even.  It still plays in a loop through my mind.  I still revel in it, reviewing the details of each kill as if I’d just committed them.  Then, I look at my hands and they’re dark red again.  Only, they’re not.  I know, logically, that they’re clean and tidy but the blood is there, just the same.  The smell.  The wet texture of it running over them.  I know it’s there and so do my victims.  

I stumble into the police station thinking that will keep me safe.  Maybe being in a holding cell is just where I need to be.  For a moment, I think it worked.  Although the officers are speaking loudly and metal is clanking, the world feels quiet.  The bellowing howls imploring me to enter the darkness with them subside and, for a moment, I think I’m free of them.  An officer walks me into a room for questioning and an empty room across the hall calls to me.  It’s the woman from a few weeks ago.  She never knew my name, or even what I look like, but she can see her blood on my hands just the same.  She stared into my eyes, mouth agape, as I poked a hole in her throat to watch her life pulse from it.  Her voice calls to me now.  It practically sings to me.  Sorrow and vengeance pour from every note.  I’m beside myself and the officers struggle to keep me still.  I feel as if I’m outside of myself.  I can see what’s happening but all my mind can focus on is the terrible song from that room.  When I’m away from it, I’ll still daydream about draining her body of blood again.

My mind is broken.  I know that.  During my more lucid moments, I’m painfully aware of it.  But I can’t have lucid moments when they’re constantly shrieking.  All those souls.  Why did I have to kill so many?  Maybe a few would be tolerable but thirteen?  Thirteen is too many, clamouring to get to me.  And why did none of this begin until I’d taken the thirteenth life?  Maybe it’s a life lesson on greed.  Twelve was allowable but thirteen is a line that should never be crossed.  The universe doesn’t make sense sometimes.  Of course, I’m sure they thought that, too, as I stabbed and sliced them.  

I’m tossed into another holding cell.  In this one, I’m alone.  No, I’m not.  I’ll never be alone again.  Whaling and sobbing echoes from down the hall.  The guards don’t hear it.  They go on about their business as if it's just another night.  Another night of depraved roughians making a scene.  The guards seem sure it’s one drug or another but I wonder if the other inmates also have thirteen victims.  I’m trying to call to my fellow bad guy.  I want to know his body count.  There have surely been other killers who killed more than thirteen.  Were they tortured but continued to kill, nonetheless?  I’m not sure how these demons could ever be ignored.  Finally, they walk me to a room with a man sitting at a table.  The man thinks he’s been all alone in this room.  But he hasn’t.

*****

“Man, what is that sorry bastard’s problem?” Officer Stevens asked Officer Downs.

“They said he stumbled into the station on his own.”  Officer Downs answered.  “We’re not really sure what he’s done exactly but it sounds like he might have either had a full mental breakdown or killed somebody.  He keeps screaming about blood on his hands and people chasing him.”

“Damn.  Any ID on him?” Officer Stevens asks.

“Yeah.  Phillip McDonald.  No priors or even a parking ticket.  Very weird.  We’re taking bets on what kind of drugs he’s on.” Officer Downs said with a chuckle.

“Can’t we put him in a cell with walls and a door?  The fucker’s loud.” Officer Stevens grimaced after a particularly high pitched screech.

“Eventually, he’s bound to blow out his vocal cords, I figure.  Or maybe his own eardrums.” Officer Downs commented as both of the officers headed towards the other end of the short hallway of cells.  “This is only a small jail.  That guy needs a padded room.” he finished.

An hour later, Detective Langston was waiting in an interrogation room for his newest case.  A male named Phillip McDonald with no rap sheet had come into the station alone, yelling about blood and people chasing him.  After testing negative for drugs, the detective was curious what this man was raving about.  He’d been warned, however, that the guy might be…less than cooperative.  Detective Langston was used to less-than-cooperative.  What he wasn’t used to was people bursting into the station and yelling about dead people chasing them.

The detective was looking over the very thin file when he heard what he very quickly assumed was his guy being walked down the hall towards his room.  This guy’s shrieking could probably be heard the next county over.  If drugs weren’t at play, this had to be a mental break of epic proportions, the detective thought.  But, as soon as Mr. Phillip McDonald cleared the doorway of the interrogation room, he completely stopped yelling and screaming.  He took one look at the detective and sat down quietly at the table.  

“Well, damn.” Officer Stevens exclaimed.  “He hasn’t shut up since he got here.  What’d you do to him?”

“I have that effect on people, I guess.” Detective Langston answered.  He stared hard at Mr. McDonald.  The man’s eyes were bloodshot, maybe from the strain of all the screaming.  He was sweaty, disheveled, and smelled like a weird mix of Ivory soap and body odor.  His face was as red as a day spent at the beach with no sunscreen.  The blue in his eyes stood out against the redness of his face like clashing colors on a color wheel.  His silence was the most disturbing part, though.  He wasn’t just quiet.  He was completely vacant behind the eyes.  

“Mr. McDonald,” Detective Langston began, “What seems to be the problem tonight?  I’m told that you think you might have blood on your hands but I see no blood.”

“There’s blood.” Phillip said with a very horse sounding voice.  “Just ask her.”

“Ask who?  Who’s blood is it?” the detective asked.

“Thirteen.” is all Phillip said in response.  His eyes kept darting from the detective’s face to the empty space behind the detective.

“Is that somebody’s nickname?” Detective Langston asked.

“No.” Phillip replied.

“Then what does that number mean?” the detective continued to pry.  

“People.  But they aren’t people anymore.” Phillip answered.  Blood still trickled from her mouth and landed on the detective’s shoulder but he didn’t seem to notice.  And why would he?  She wasn’t there for him.

“Phillip.  Can I call you that?  Are you telling me that you’ve got blood on your hands that belongs to thirteen different people?” Detective Langston asked.  He didn’t quite believe Phillip but he was following the line of questioning for now.

“Yes.  And I’m not sorry.  I’m just scared.” Phillip said, quite matter-of-factly.  

“Well, if you’re not sorry, why are you scared?” the detective asked, genuinely curious now.

“I didn’t realize I’d have to pay it back.” Phillip answered as a small stream of blood began to drip from his nose.  Detective Langston’s eyes squinted in an effort to be sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.  A nose bleed wasn’t a big deal but the timing of it…strange.

“You need a tissue, son?” Langston asked as he scooted a box of Kleenex towards his detainee.  Phillip didn’t reach for the box or even acknowledge it.  

“That won’t be enough.” Phillip said as another small stream emerged from his left eye.  And then his right.

“Good Lord, man.  Do you have a medical condition we should know about?” Langston asked with some urgency now.  “Hey fellows,” he called through the open door, “We need a medic in here!”  Footsteps quickly paced down the hall as Phillip spoke again.

“Emily was the thirteenth.  And she says it's time to pay back the blood.” Phillip said as blood spilled from his ears and the corner of his slightly opened mouth.  However, Detective Langston was no longer paying attention to all the various orpheus this man was bleeding from.  He’d said the detective’s daughter’s name and he knew it wasn’t a coincidence.  He hadn’t been able to reach her all day and had assumed she’d been busy studying for her college exams coming up.  He’d already made a mental note to stop by her apartment on the way home to check on her when he was done with this interview.  Why would this guy say her name?

Phillip was still gurgling up blood as Detective Langston jumped up from his seat and ran for the door.  He was going to his daughter’s house, lights and sirens.  No one was going to slow him down until he had his daughter in front of him, alive and well.  Phillip McDonald could choke on as much blood as he wanted to.  Hell, he could choke on all of it.  And he did.  His body expelled his blood from every available opening until there was none left in him.  Emily was the last thing he saw through a red haze of blood coating his eyes.  Doctors couldn’t explain it during the autopsy.  A medical first, is what they said.  But Detective Langston didn’t care about any of that.  His daughter was indeed at her apartment when he arrived.  What was left of her, anyway.

Thank you for reading my short story! If you prefer to listen to me read my short stories, please click here to subscribe to my podcast. Most even numbered episodes are short stories I’ve written and read aloud.