It desires grasp hold of its victims and strangles them, slowly, purposefully and personally. It desires to see the life live its victim’s eyes. It constantly observes, deliberately places its oppressive face near that of its victims, the victims… the victims. They are its prize and its symbol of its everlasting malice. And yet, this nature isn’t that which bothers me. It’s the fact that this nature is implanted in me, the victims are in me, and they are constantly yelling and ripping at my soul.
My name is Warren Maedon. This is me.
I don’t really try to be obvious in loosing you in that literary mess of an introduction. I enjoy seeing my victims die. I kill. Simple as that. But, that is just one part of me. Why I kill, is my secret. You would have to read the rest of my…whatever this is…to see.
Don’t see me, reader, as pretentious nor as Death himself. I am a mere vessel, empty, and logical. I’m not miserable nor do I feel guilt. I hate those feelings. I feel them permeate the aura of others; their pain seeps into my skin and mingles with my soul. That makes me angry. That connection is only severed in my death…or in theirs.
I can recollect the first night this desire became practice; allow me to tell you, dear reader.
In the late hours of the night, when my breathe appeared as a puff of white mist in front of me, I stood on the dusty curb in the middle of the city which I despised for being so large . The moon shone slightly, but she hid her face from me for her purity was too good to shine upon me. I honestly care little for her opinion.
The cars have long stopped traveling, and the puddles in the street lay pitch black, full of oil and the pollution of modern life. The buildings around me were all empty, but I saw a man leave one.
Dressed in a white collar shirt, a handsome black blazer and a bright red tie marked him, at least to me, as a professional. His face had long lines along his lips, the weight of the world lay in his eyes, and his gait seemed to me as that of a wounded stray mutt searching for scarps in the street.
This man, whom I began to shadow, hurried along the street in a brisk pace. I could hear his panicked breathes. I did little to hide my presence yet he refused to believe I was there. I could only imagine his eyes darting around, his heart gripped with fear and his mind filled with memories of his life as a child and how little satisfaction he had with his father. His father never saw him, literally and emotionally. He wasn’t there for him. This man hated himself for it and always viewed it as his fault. His pain mingled with my soul. I could care less of his pain about his father but the fact that his soul reached out to me in a desperate outcry annoyed me and roused my ire.
I have nothing against this man. But I had to take his life. My apologies, reader, if this disturbs you for I know you rarely seem to find murderer that tells of his doings so readily.
I continued to follow the man and in his haste he dropped his wallet. I paused and raised an eyebrow. This presented an interesting situation. I picked up the rough leather pouch, flipped it open, and pulled out his ID. His name was Nathaniel Jovares. 254 Savannah Avenue. Muddled brown eyes, thick oily brown hair and age … That is for me alone.
I ended my pursuit of him and proceeded to my vehicle. I would arrive to his abode to commit the act. Tonight.
---
There it was. A small home, with cold lonely droop about it. It seemed to sigh as the moon shone on it. She seemed to profess her opinions tonight, which roused my petulance. The lawn, from what I could see, was unkempt and the front windows were dusty and dirty. This was not the most pleasing home and it reminded me of the feeling I receive from the mingling of essences with my own.
Somehow, I arrived before my new friend. I proceed to the home, wet mud underfoot and tired the front door. Obviously, it was locked but that did not stop me because the mat had a spare key under it. (If he dropped his wallet and so easily ran without it, then he was bound to lose his keys.) I made myself at home.
The habitation reeked with the stench of self-deprivation, was small and cluttered. The living room had a single couch, with a lazily positioned TV and table. On top were a vast array of photographs and from what I saw, they were originals. Photos of women and children, happy couples, beach days, and city nights. Beautiful. This man had talent. What a waste.
I took a seat on the couch, threw my arms behind my head, and waited.
It was not before long that the lights of the car shone across the window. The man, heavy and disgruntled, plodded through the door and threw his keys to the hall table. I heard his breathing, deep and tired, as he began to lose his guard in the safety of his own home. By this time I moved from the couch and hid in a nearby dark corner. Nathaniel had already taken a seat in the living room and began to doze off almost immediately.
In his sleepy disposition, I observed him. His body was heavy, yet very fit. He revealed signs of weight loss, and his face appeared far skinner than his ID photo. He had greasy brown hair that flowed over his forehead to the right. He had a small Roman nose and very dark eyes: serious, pain filled, dark, and yet, full of light. He shaved rarely for he does not show sign of facial hair. All and all, I have in my sights a very handsome fellow. What a waste.
His fingers were short and neatly groomed. They were the fingers of a typer, a business man. It pained me to see him living such a lackluster existence. His photos revealed to me a talented, passionate, and creative nature in him. He was an artist. It was in his blood. What a waste.
He was asleep in twenty minutes. He slept peacefully, still in his tie and shoes, and his once dense breathes were lightened in the solace of sleep. He was especially fine looking but weary for I could see it as I approached him. I loomed over him as a mother would a child and then, I noticed his exhaustion more clearly. His fine face was chiseled with cold streaks of lines, dark patches of brown beneath his serious eyes, and a thin layer of sweaty grease on his forehead. His body smelt of passion and perspiration.
I looked upon him with love. I saw this man suffering in life, not reaching for his true nature, not fulfilling his dreams. I resent that but it’s not his fault. The people in the world say that art is not worth a moment of interest and he believed them. What a waste, what a waste, what a waste!
But, in my heart, I felt the need to relieve him. I caressed his face, gently and deliberately. He stirred and smacked my hand aside as if I were a fly. The opposition of my hand woke him.
The surprise on his face revealed a treasure trove into this man’s life. His dark eyes lit up with disappointment, confusion, and pain. He was a victim of his own life. He was a victim of my life. He was a victim of life.
Before he yelled for help, I placed my hand over his thin lips. I easily over powered him, and gave him a swift press of the neck and placed him under consciousness.
When he woke next, he was bound and gagged. I had stripped him of all his clothes except his undergarments, and combed his unkempt hair. He deserved to be comfortable. I did not wear a mask. I wanted him to see his killer, the last person to see him live. To see him suffer, to see him deny himself…. What a waste.
He began to muffle yells through the tape.
“Nathaniel, I am very sorry it had to come down to this. I truly am,” I said with kindness.
He just stared in disbelief. He was pleading with me for his life. Those serious eyes his father never saw joyful were now his only source of begging. I cared for him too much not to do this.
“My name is Warren. Warren Maedon” I said as I caressed his face with my bare hands, “And I am truly sorry…”
He still had that dumb look of disbelief on his face.
“Yes, this is happening Mr. Joveres,” I say to comfort him, “And it will happen now.”
I laid the chair down on the floor and unstrapped him from it. I warned him if he resisted, I would shoot him with a gun. I had no gun. At this point, he would believe me if I said I was the King of England. What a waste of a mind and a soul--it pains me.
I got on my knees, one on each side of his think body and placed my large hands on his throat. I grasped it, pressing my thumbs into his Adams apple, crushing his wind pipe. I could feel it break under my might. His eyes were in agony, desperate for mercy and pleading with me to stop. I beheld them and understood his pain.
“It will be over soon,” I said as I crushed his neck further.
After about thirty seconds, his eyes began to dwindle, shake, and fall into the abyss. I was a witness to the departure of his essence. His soul began to melt in my hands—the sun of his day soon erupted into in black hole. His warmth grew icy as his identity, his personality and his passion gave way to the impending flood of cold and peaceful death.
I pressed into his throat hard once more. I heard a pop, then a crack. It would seem I shattered his throat, crushing his air passages thereby killing him.
What a waste. I closed his eyes and kissed his forehead. I loved him and understood him. This is why I had to do this. Now, he was free to be that passionate soul he was all along. That is my greatest comfort. I left him to rest in the security of his own home.
He was no longer a victim. He was liberated.