Well'p, I'm very sleepy... the first thing that came to mind when I spotted this month's contest was the mind of the killer from my first finished
novel, Wicked. This is a scene from chapter one, written from the killer's
perspective. Minor spoilers for the whole novel, but I'm sure no one here minds. That entire book, particularly this character, was inspired by an
old Nick Cave song, most famously known for appearing in the Scream movies in the 90s. If you wanna be extra creepy like me, put this song on a loop
while you read, just as I did when I wrote it. Enjoy!
PS - Reader Discretion Advised - Gorey Content
His old friend used to say that all those years ago, back when the sun shone brighter, back when his father and his bullies saw to life's unfairness
with the utmost persistence. Yes, financial problems always doubled down on his family. Jocks and preps treated him like garbage, and his father
barely treated him any better.
"That's life," Vance would say, back when the two were teenagers. "I don't know what else to tell you."
Funny, he thought present day, eyeing the shining black truck as it coasted toward the heart of Gates Mill, the blood moon hovering ominously in the
night sky. Vance made friends with those jocks, and he grew up to become a hero among the Navy SEALs. Maybe that's life for Vance, but that wasn't
what became of Vance's best friend--and as he stood enshrouded in shadows near the main road, he knew full well that he and his old best friend
treaded opposite paths, though ironically, both paths fashioned them into killers.
There was one major difference, though. Vance was a glorified killer for the Military of America.
Vance's friend, however, was a lonesome justice killer roaming the streets of their old hometown. The townspeople had numerous nicknames for him--but
ever since the infamous murder of Mary Goldwater thirteen years prior, he was known mainly as the cut-throat killer, the mysterious man who alluded
the law for nearly a decade and a half, the man with stringy, unkempt black hair beneath a wide-rimmed hat, a dark tattered overcoat shifting in the
wind as he stood at the corner of Gleason Avenue, watching as the truck inched closer, the headlights casting two spotlights on the road ahead.
Unlike Vance, the cut-throat killer didn't kill who he was ordered to--he killed those who truly deserved to die, people like his father, people like
Mary Goldwater--and people like Joseph Wick, the ex-cop who was cruising obliviously down the empty street, unknowingly approaching the most infamous
killer in Texas.
Perhaps it was easier for others to dismiss life's imperfections. It must've been--otherwise, everyone who felt hurt or betrayed would be running
amok, using an old branch cutter to enact vengeance on those deserving. But no; others drove to work each day and home each night, somehow tolerating
the people in their daily lives who treated them like human trash.
In fact, a lot of them recited that old flawed motto on a disturbingly regular basis. That's life.
The truck drew nearer, and he took a wary step back, hiding in the shadow of a great weeping willow. Joseph Wick was on the news during his latest
visit to the diner on the outskirts of town--evidently, this man lost his badge after beating his son so severely, the boy ended up in the hospital
with a broken leg. The cut-throat killer's skin felt tight as he eyed the truck, goosebumps crawling up and down him--that man reminded him of his
father, of so many abusive or neglectful parents who never faced justice.
That wouldn't fly--not tonight.
He took in a deep, heavy breath, trying to prepare himself. It would be his first blood in thirteen years.
As the truck slowed to a near stop, Joseph Wick's burly body came into view from the windshield. He began to make the tuen--and, just as planned, the
cut-throat killed stepped out from under the tree's canopy, yanking the side door open in one swift jerk. Before Joseph could react, the cut-throat
killer had leaped into the vehicle--he jolted to the front and pressed the toothy blade of the branch cutter into Joseph's neck.
In a panic, Joseph's foot stomped on the gas pedal--the truck rocketed forward, zig-zagging down Gleason and speeding in crooked spurs. The
cut-throat killer made one swift, powerful motion--the serrated blade ripped his throat to a fresh red pulp, crimson pouring out of him as his eyes
tore open in horror. The truck spiraled out of control, narrowly missing two strangers on the streetside--the cut-throat killer quickly ducked from
The truck rammed into a streetlight, the front wrapped around it in bizarre metal folds as smoke clouds rose from beneath the totaled hood.
He jutted forward, his hat nearly falling as his head slammed into the back of the driver seat, but mostly, he was unharmed. The same couldn't be
said for the convulsing body in the front seat, bleeding profusely as the light left his eyes. The cut-throat killer inched closer to the front,
smirking with a cold, cruel sneer. People are cruel, and sometimes, they get away with it. Kids are mistreated, and people get into car accidents -
and, if the cut-throat killer happens to be lurking in the shadows of your street corner, then sometimes, people get murdered.
That's life, he thought wickedly, gazing into the corpse almost trancelike. And this is death.
Actually this is it. It's for the short story contest, but I wrote this extremely sleep-deprived yesterday without realizing there was a 50 word limit
for the entries, so it just ended up being for fun xD
But if you follow that link tethered to the word Wicked in the op, you can read lots more from this killer's world. ^^
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