A man who's wife was murdered begins writing short stories as his mind rapidly rots.
|Fires flickered across Ferris Julius’ cold face as the candle crackled and waved in the faint breeze of air blowing from his nostrils. He sat at his table, reminiscing over better days, when his smile still shined and his wife was still alive. He thought back to their first kiss and his heart was warmed with pleasant emotions. He thought of the date they went on, when his car broke down on the way to the drive-in theatre, and he chuckled to himself. He thought of the day of their wedding with the camera lights flashing in his worried face, and those same innocent feelings of nervousness came over his weak body. He thought about the night she was dragged out of their home and murdered in a field outside of town, and tears bubbled up from the pit of his stomach into the pockets of his eyes. He clenched his fingers into a tight fist and slammed all of his force into the maple desk in front of him.
Mr.Julius was an author, though none of his work had ever gained much recognition. He was a fairly good writer, descriptive, and well educated in the laws and rules of conventional writing. The one thing his stories lacked was an interesting voice. His narrative was always flat and dull, and his plots always seemed familiar. Tonight, he decided he was going to use the most interesting voice he knew, the voice of a killer. He was going to take himself into the mind of the beast who massacred his wife. Ferris pulled himself closer to the desk and put his fingers on the keys of his Smith Corona typewriter and began writing...
Bad people aren’t always the ones who commit the crime. I wanted to kill somebody for years, but I never decided to try it out until that night. The thought of having someone’s life in your hands always fascinated me. The ability to hold the difference between the life and death in front of somebody’s face and watch them beg you to let them live. That night I devised a sick and spectacular plan to kill. I would go to the big green house of that disgusting couple, with their beautiful lives and their beautiful home. I would break in the door and injure the man, so he could be of no distraction in my mission to dip my tongue into the delicious world of crime. I would take the woman to a field, where nobody would see or hear my beautiful act and I would let her have it.
The night of the murder, I waited on the curb of their street in my cobalt blue pickup truck, until they went to bed. I was only at this house for the capture, so I took with me nothing more than a baseball bat. As I turned the doorknob, I began to feel a scared nausea in the pit of my gut. Swallowing deep, I opened the front door. These people had no reason to lock their door, I mean, they lived in a perfect neighborhood, or so they thought. I heard the man say, “What was that?”, to his wife as I crept towards their bedroom door. Swinging open the door, I let out a violent yell and threw the man out of his bed. I slammed the bat across his face and a squirt of blood gushed from his nose. His wife was screaming, while I stepped on his stomach and kicked him into unconsciousness. I got some duct tape and shut her mouth, so to not upset the neighbors. I knocked the woman out with my fist and carried her lightly to the bed of the truck. As I took off down the road, I could hear her body bouncing off of the walls. I chuckled to myself.
Police sirens rang out behind me, so I pressed the pedal to the floor and got away from the scene of the crime. I’d burned off my fingerprints, and their was no trace of my ever being there. I wore only socks to the murder, and I’d thrown them into a bush on the side of the road.
After approximately an hour of driving, I came upon an open field. I’d not seen a house or a car for miles and miles. By this point, the woman had woken up and I had to strap her into the seat next to me, to keep her from jumping out of the trunk. I opened the door and threw the woman into the field. Taking the tape from her mouth, slowly and painfully, I watched her eyes water with fear and agony. My heart began to flood with joy.
I dragged her by her hair, into the center of the field. She screamed for me to stop, she promised she would do anything, but it didn’t matter to me. I shoved the end of my Louisville Slugger deep into her throat until she made a gurgling, hacking sound and I pulled it out. She spat onto the ground and began grasping for breath, I kicked her side and she curled up into a ball. Dragging this out too long would surely result in somebody passing by and seeing the joyous event, so I had to make my pleasure somewhat brief. I slammed the bat into her face once and she screamed, one of her teeth fell out into the grass.
“Help!” She cried through a mouthful of blood.
The thick smacking sound of wood meeting skin rang out, as I brought the bat to meet the side of her face once more.
“Please, stop!” Tears poured from her eyes and she reached out for me. Her face was covered in the deep red juices. Her teeth had all either fallen into the back of her throat or been smashed out onto the ground.
One last blow to the head of this poor helpless victim, and she was done. Her breath stopped and she just lay their, arms sprawled out, legs contorted into spastic positions. I let out a dark laugh, a deep, loud, harsh, and evil laugh. I’d done it, I killed a woman. I’d taken my first human life. Not an ounce of remorse followed me, as I wiped the blood from my face and body. I took off my shirt and got back in the truck. What a marvelous night tonight had turned out to be.
Within a week, I had taken refuge in the middle east. I will never be found. I will never be caught. I have sinned and I shall not pay.
At this point, Ferris had become enraged once again. He screamed obscenities at the top of his lungs, wishing he could go back and save his precious wife. He took his entire inventory of cups, plates, and bowls, made from various assortments of breakable materials and broke them off the floor. He threw a bottle of good champagne and smashed it on the ground. He got on the ground and licked up the liquid, piercing his tongue with shards of glass. If anyone had seen him doing this, he would’ve been in a mental institute by now. Snot ran down his lips, all the way to his chin, where it melded with the salty tear water and the gushing red liquid. His fingers looked sort of like if you let a five year old cook and cut your steak for you, frayed and uneven. Dented and disfigured. Unappetizing and ugly. Undercooked and raw.
Ferris Julius fell asleep in the champagne and broken glass, getting stuck in the back, or in the side, every time he rolled over. When he woke up, his shirt was blood-soaked and torn. He brushed the glass from his bare back, but he was unable to remove the indented pieces that were in that area of your back that you couldn’t reach, even if you wanted to.
He cleaned out and bandaged his fingers, then slipped into some casual clothes, to go out to town. Relaxed jeans, a plain grey t-shirt, Red Sox ball cap, slip on shoes, anyone on the street would mistake Ferris for a normal guy.
When Mr. Julius waved to people, they couldn’t see the disturbed nature of his smile. They couldn’t notice the crooked way his lip curled when his mouth twisted up like a Jack-O-Lantern. It was almost like someone had actually taken a knife and sliced the socket off his mouth into the shape of a smile, but nobody payed enough attention to realize that the happy man across the street was an insane menace.
Upon entering the general store, Ferris thought in his head what he would need to complete his project he was working on. He bought matches and candles in quantities unimaginable, two lanterns and enough oil to last a year or two if you left them running 24/7. Canned corn, green beans, tomatoes, chicken noodle soup, vienna sausages. People in the store gave him questioning stares and pointed at him to their friends. He payed no mind to the surrounding customers, he had business to attend to.
Ferris packed his truck so full of stuff that he filled the entire trunk and every seat except his. He stopped at his home, only to pick up a bundle of pens, a shovel, stacks upon stacks of paper, a shovel, and a shotgun. He left his depression medication on a shelf in the bathroom. The truck rolled on until it came to the field where Mrs. Julius had been murdered and buried.
Stepping out onto the packed soil, Ferris took a deep breath of the fresh air, to him, this air smelled like death, the warm stench of a lost lover, the smell of rotted corpse. Any normal person would tell you that it smelled like sweet grass, it smelled wholesome and natural. He wasn’t a normal person, and this air made him sad, and angry, but he wasn’t about to leave, he came here for a reason.