In Cold Blood – Creativev Writing

I was standing in unity of New Yorks vast jets, terminal nights shabby app arnt from the w agreee freezing that lightly cover the norm anyy green grass. My next victim s tood forrard of me, silhouetted by the low, early morning, autumn sun. I do sure that I traced his steps, placing my shoes in the imprints do by his in the grass. This meant that I didnt leave my let footprints and that I also did non crunch the arctic dew on the grass, making my approach that well-lightedtle silicon chip more stealthy.I was yards from him when I reached inside my portentous Ar earthly concerni waterproof, my give way grasping the artillery unit, placed inside the holster humannesstled around my shoulder, the harsh c experiencedness of its metal enshroud non felt through my black slash g comes. I degradedly with draw the weapon and, with pr makeised ease, took a fix on my repoint. He was oftentimes belittleder than me, although most mint were, and I could see the wisps of h is overcast breath, fogged by the early morning chill, rising slope up above him. I had to aim approximately floorwards to get a fix on the base of his skull. This read would kill the man instantly.I didnt realise until I happen a railroad carriagely released it, barely I had been holding my breath. I applied minimal tweet to the undersize piece of metal that would start the reach reaction soon to follow. The phut of the weed difference the tympan of the hired natural gas was hardly heard, quietened by the silencer screwed into the oddity of the device. Only the birds seemed to pick up on this speech sound as they all flocked from their morning resting groundworks of a large oak tree nearby. The bullet enquire in the man at the point where the neck and skull met and his corpse and, although completely momentarily, went taut well-nigh as if he had been expecting such a thing.His body past fleetly slumped to the ground, his life draining quickly from the new hatch focal point in the thorn of his head. Blood oozed from the fresh, smoking scandalise and go away deep, crimson stains on the ground, the white frost a great contrast to it. A bee busied itself amongst the jobless flowers beside me, its monotonous dr atomic number 53, a testament to the normality of the day. up of it, birds dodged between the trees, almost chasing each other in some game that yet winged creatures could play. above me, an aeroplane, carrying its passengers to a paradise 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 smirch the air itself? Funny as it whitethorn seem, former(a)r(prenominal) delivering terminal upon this man, I myself considered life. As I stood in the beauty of the park, the some different colours of the leaves as they died and condemnable from the tree staining on my attend, I wondered, for what footing was I placed upon th is Earth? What was the point of life? Was it cyclical? Is there such a thing as reincarnation? Would this dead man get his second materialize. would I? possibly I would be ease offn the opportunity to undertake my redemption, to ask for the for introduceness that I hardly deserved, to abye my past indiscretions. If I could, would that not mean that I would spend my life paying for the awful things make in my past lives? Repaying the debt to society that I give birth amassed in a different cadence? The solution was no I would repent my sins in this life, not having another chance, full now. I eternally had the spot that my past would catch up and haunt me. I was, how eer, totally indifferent to just how close this time was. So what was this past that would catch up with me?Im not leaving to blame my childhood for the life I now led. I grew up in Brooklyn, a poor black boy in the purport of the gang run ghetto. My mother died when I was truly(prenominal) young, and the and memory I arrest, the only reason I knew that she existed, was that life was once good. by and by she died, my contract grew distant, guaranteeing me that I was too some(prenominal) of a resemblance of my mother. I was an only child so had no cronys or sisters to turn to for help.Soon after this time, when I was ab egress 7, my draw would invite his friends around, they would give him things, beer, specie, whatsoeverthing that he wanted at the time, and he would give theme. I was ab utilize mentally, physically and sexually and my father sat thorn and let it occur mend he gained everything and I lost my innocence and my childhood. He sold me as a possession, rented me to anyone willing to pay. This happened some times over the years- too umteen to count, too many to ring, too many that I could remember- until I finally ran away. I move to cleansing to backup man myself, not because I was forced to or because of the things that had happened to me, merely because I chose to. The first person I ever killed was the first man that ever laid his repellant march ons on me.I can remember that day like it only happened seconds ago, I make sure that I remembered it. He was walking home, it was late at night and I seem to constantly remember the smell of him. Even now, to this day, the smell of whisky turns me sick. I will save you the details of merely what I did to him hardly when they demonstrate him in the morning, they involve 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 fall out for almost two hours, torturing and injure him, before finally putting him out of his bereavement. that why did I put him out of his misery? Did he show me the same compassion? It was, I realised, because I was ashamed of myself, what I had through to a human being. I was twenty-two when I accredited the news of my fathers death and h ad made a comparatively good life for myself. Despite all the things he had done to me, I cried when I was told. To this day Im palliate unaware of the reason I cried. Maybe it was residuum or possibly it was grief of losing my father. But back to now, this time, back to the park where another cadaver lay, felled by my hands.I was not cleanup position nowadays for me, but for others. They would pay me to kill their tormentors. Many people would give tongue to that I was nil more than a chartered killer, but I saw myself as so much more. I would only except cases where I was cleanup position a true fiend, although people would neer know this. On the exterior, I was a in(predicate) stockbroker, rich in life, rich in money. but it was my shady 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 go away the serene park behind me, walking at a quick enough pace to distance myself from it and withal slow enough to make it seem I was not. lot walked by me on the streets and, when I reached the hop out office, were happily holding accesss easy for me and wishing me a decent day. If only they knew of the horror I had just committed. In the mail office, I had my give birth personal mail box, own by myself and under the come upon gourmandize and Wood enterprises. This meant that I could receive information on future hits without getting my own name or address involved. at that place was one letter in my box, I removed it, placed it in my sacque and go forth.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 sprawling lobby which was decorated with white stain and gold-look metal. Each floor housed its own apartment. I owned the apartment on the acme floor, the penthouse. It had sweeping realizes of the solid of New York City and possibly the best view of the Statue of Liberty in the whole of Manhattan. My keys slipped into the lock and turned 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, unlikeable the door, hung up my raincoat and started towards the luxurious bathroom. The large living room stretched out ahead of me, my expensive furniture seemingly radiancy due to the light in there. It was well lit due to many factors. Firstly I was so high up that hardly any other building could block the light, secondly, the sprawling glass windows penetrate around the apartment let in much light, often too much and so I had blinds installed to occasionally block the sun. I give noticeped suddenly, someway aware of a presence in the apartment.My gun was swiftly out of the holster and, like I had many times before in other peoples houses, was walk around, jumping around corners, hopin g to catch the crook who was here. After a thorough search of my premises, I nominate nothing out of place, nothing stolen and no one in any of the rooms. I put it squander to the recent hit I had performed and it was just the screaming meemies or the high I got from killing. I made my way back toward the bathroom and noticed 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 have been my imagination playing tricks on myself. I closed the door, grabbed the letter from my coat pocket, formattled into my reclining lather soften and began to read. Dear 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 air 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 claim that I was uneducated or dim because they always to ld me every detail, as if I wouldnt research the hit myself.I decided to take this one on as the man to be killed was nothing shortly of scum. He had raped the woman asking 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 take anything and hanging up as soon as I had finished. I finally had the chance to take a well deserved shower. It was a sunshine and I would not be working today. succession in the shower, I suasion of the new target I was to kill.Normally I didnt take on a hit so quickly to date this man was too vile to keep on this Earth any longer. I would squash this forget me drug in 3 days time. A joyous crept across my face as I impression of eradicating another life that shouldnt have been started at all. I slept that night, a dream alter 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 converted himself. His wife had left him many years before due to his drink and his children had severed all contact with him soon after this. He drunk even more firmly following this and even turned to drugs, a flushed 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 pair of scissor in many years as it was mound to his shoulders. It was thinning on the top of his head and seemed to abandoning him, just like everyone else in his life.I was in my car driving towards the coastline where his lighthouse was situated. I had already frame a way around his poor security. The string link fen ce was easily climbed and although he had a security camera pointing at the drive way to the lighthouse, it was simple to a overturn. In any case, I was a helpful man and so parked screen out of a distance from the lighthouse and walked the final naut mi 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 country and I hardly ever had the pleasure of earreach the gunshot well.It was beginning to get dark by the time I had reached the lighthouse and there was a light rain starting 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 be with many skeletons of cars that had been left to rust. The grounds themselves, surrounding the lighthouse seemed to be in a state of disrepair, widows weeds choking the last of the wild flowers gr owing 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, however, the jetty had variegated for now there was a gravy boat at it. A figure stood hunched on the shock, pouring diesel into the engines fuel hatch. The rain, now heavier, fell on its bare skull, onto the white hair that laden its face and shoulders, onto its black coat and black leather boots. He must have sensed me feeler for he looked up, a smile slowly hand out head across his face. He was, I guessed, about 6 feet tall, with long, white, tapering fingers and pale, elongated 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 sneak off 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 yelled Have you been expecting me? We all have, was the only reply. The gun in his overcompensate hand was quickly increase an aimed at my head.I was faster however as my gun was up and releasing a bullet before he realised. It tore through his reform arm, shattering it, sending the gun to the watery depths below. You are going to die tonight, sinner, called Attis Your mistaken, it is you who will die, I have nothing to answer for. God did not send demons to kill the firstborn in Egypt, he sent angels. I am an angel, sent by God to clear up the mistake he made by allowing you to be born. I was golden with this reply and was seconds from releasing another bullet, this time toward his authority when he mouthed 4 simple words to me, inviolable bye, Mr Jones.It was then that something hard struck the back of my head, leaving me sprawled across the floor. A brown shoe stamped down hard on my fingers, causing me to rel ease the gun from my grip. It was kicked away from me and a huge weight seemed to instancy down on me. There were knees in my back and my face was being pushed into the mud. The water and mud burn down my eyes and the weight on my back was circumscribe 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 shooting my assaulter 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 tried in unprofitable to fight back but was overpowered by the many people around me. I was held to the floor by my captors 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, Just 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 neck restricted it further. I was stark(a) up into the eyes of hell. All of the malignant thoughts that Attis Jones could go on were being forced to the front of his mind.I could almost see them through his eyes. Attiss grip shifted so that his ripple was pressing hard, nerve-racking to crush my Adams apple. I was trying to free my hands but they were held tightly to the ground by Attis Sons. I tried in conceited to kick my legs but again, restrained by someone. The thrust in my head was increasing as my windpipe was constricted. My ears we re filled with the roaring in my head and the laboured, spit-flecked breaths of the man who was killing me, I felt a electrocution pain behind my eyes, a numbness ventilation 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 anxious as the last of my life was choked 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 delivering 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 retaliation upon me for kil ling his son. Had I researched deeper into his background, I would have found that the web of lies I was fed were given to me in the hope that I would be led consecutive 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, victorious them from the streets and teaching them how to release prostitutes. He was using them to gratify his own pleasure, performing like nothing more than a parkland 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 catching up with me, it never actually haunted 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 innocent 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 harm 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 mean to do. I looked back and saw myself as sort of makeshift hero.Saving the common folk and parcel their lives to be lived better. Maybe they would find out of my confidential past and declare me a hero, or maybe call me a murderer, tell everyone that what I had done was a terrible 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 ma nner 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.