It's Just Another Kill || ✍︎

2. | handsome.

Marcus Hudson

"seventeen year old, male, brown hair. Brown eyes, white skin, six feet. one-hundred-fifty-six pounds. Last seen wearing a blue hoodie and black jeans. Missing for the last thirteen weeks. Last seen June forth. If found please call 203-566-9894. Thank you - Noah and Amanda Hudson"

I cross out the words in blood red ink, then add my personal information. The pen is black the ink is red. But how does it make me wonder so much? Blood is a necessity to human life, everyone knows it.

The dead dream of it, the living take advantage of it.

A pen, a useful object used once a day by me. I write poems, and fake articles. I dreamt of becoming a writer, but that never happened, none of my dreams did. But this pen can easily simplify the world of humans in a few short sentences.

I twirl it in between my fingers, being careful not to drop it. It glides through like a figure skater on ice. The air conditioner starts blowing and strands of my brown hair fly through the gusts of cool breeze.

To simplify the human world is easy. Very easy might I add. The black of the pen symbols the cold hearts of many. Mine being one. Growing up kids use to tell me to "fuck off" and to "go die" all because of a stupid mistake of setting the school on fire. I have always blamed myself.

For everything.

I set the school on fire from an experiment in class. I purposely did it. I and only I will take the blame. Only one room was burnt. No one was hurt. The rest of the school was fine. No one knew. They didn't expel me. I was 14 and young, but with such a cruel heart. My so-called best friend joined the others and made fun of me. 15, a just starting sophomore. I killed him. Shot him in cold blood. Killed him in the woods outside of his neighborhood, no one found out. He might have not deserved death. But I was broken. In my eyes he deserved hell.

Black heart, black pen. I see no difference. Red blood, Red ink. A perfect resemblance.

I got a letter when I was fifteen to kill people. I would earn money for it, and my grudges would go away. I earn four-hundred-thousand per person. I complained about not getting more but when killing becomes a hobby, million's roll in quickly. It's September twenty-sixth and I have already killed five people. These five were some people who bullied me. The faster I made the kills the faster the faster guilt and the grudges went away. Three were shot, two were killed with a knife. Killing with a knife takes skill, you can stab them but they'll still be alive. You have to stab in the heart or the throat. Only the heart or throat. It takes practice and no one has mastered killing everyone with it.

The paper which I write my personal information on is a flyer for a missing child named Livvy Grant. She's a year younger than me and the picture in the flyer doesn't make her look bad. She will be my next victim. I'm allowed to kill whoever I want unless I'm told to kill someone. I must take a picture, find their personal information and dispose of the body. Boom four-hundred thousand in my bank account. Sure, she's an innocent girl to everyone, and a person not worthy of dying. But research shows that she killed her ex lover. Some guts that's got to take for a perfect sixteen year old. I left the gun on her doorstep, might as well let her hold it. I'll steal it back after. I know exactly where she lives, it should be an easy stitch. It should be.

~ ~

I show up at her door at two p.m. I ring the bell and can hear footsteps.

I'm wearing a black tee-shirt and dark blue jeans. I hear the footsteps move closer to the door and stand against the wall. One of my hands up high and one in my pocket. I have the knife in my back pocket ready for easy access to kill her. Not the most comfortable spot for a knife but it will do.