Hero?

When I look in the mirror every morning, I wonder what I have become over the years. Have all my…”actions” up to this point been simply driven from my own unquenchable thirsts? Or have Harry’s teachings twisted my desire to kill into something more specific, more purposeful? Do I kill them because they’re evil, or do I truly kill them because I need to and their evil is merely a fortunate byproduct? If I really am doing it because they’re bad, I suppose that would make me a little heroic. Maybe not a super one, but yes, that would make me a sort of hero. Now it’d be all fine and dandy if that was who I am. Life would be nice if I did kill them because they’re the bad guys. That would certainly give me something to be proud of. However, I know that is not the case. You see I’m not proud of myself. I don’t kill them because they’re bad. I know I’m no hero and I have come to accept that over the years. The problem is no one else would accept that truth if they knew. That’s why I must hide them; I must hide the urges and temptations to kill. I have to follow the code of Henry and channel my urges. I have to kill, but if I must, there may as well be some fortunate byproducts to it.

 

History

Today started just as any other day would.  I helped my girlfriend Rita get the kids ready for school, it’s a Monday so they really weren’t in the mood but I think I got them out and ready to go fairly well.  I couldn’t keep Rita from taking the day off especially after what just happened to her but she seems to be doing okay.  She got into another fight with her ex Paul again, and I still don’t think she’s okay but she was pretty adamant.  That’s beside’s the point though. 

At the office this morning we were sent a mason jar full of blood that included a motel key.  The police arrived at the room and found the place rather drenched with blood.  Because I am me they let me go in there alone first to see what I could find.  Instead of doing actual work I couldn’t help but remember a similar time in my past when I remembered something about a gigantic pool of blood.  I couldn’t place it but the memory made me dizzy and I fell and passed out.  When I recovered I exited the place as quickly as possible and was out of breath when I stepped out into the sunshine.  The rest of the cops and my colleagues were a little beleaguered to see me in such an unusual state because they all correctly think that I just love blood, but this surprised them.  It surprised me too because even after I got some fresh air I couldn’t get that memory out of my head and I couldn’t bring myself to go back in that room again.

My sister Debra was worried about me and tried to confront me but I didn’t really give her any reassurances and I think she was right about me not telling anyone any of my feelings. 

Another interesting thing happened at work today.  They ran some tests on the blood from the hotel room and figured out where the blood had come from at the least five different victims.  I think it’s the Ice Truck Killer who’s trying to taunt me and bring me down the rabbit hole.  I had always wondered what he had done with the blood from his victims and this would explain what he did with it. 

Rudy, Debra's boyfriend, stopped by with steak so we ate and talked.  He told me about watching as his mother was killed when he was a small child. He also helped explain how the blood on the walls of the hotel room could get in that particular splatter: a chainsaw. It was something I had been asking myself for quite some time now.  I don't really know how he came to that conclusion though.
 

Debra was really pissed today at the office when she confronted me about my dinner with her boyfriend.  She was really, really mad about me not talking to her and talking to him instead.  She was really emotional about it and I don’t know what I’m gonna do about it or why it happened to be honest.

Pual stopped by Rita's house later and I knocked Paul across the head when he threatened Rita and her children and I had enough of that crap.  I’ll get away with it because that stupid guy had a drug problem and I played that one up real nice.  Rita isn’t going to have any more problems with him and the children while that idiot is rotting in jail.  What I did for Rita made her really happy and I like it when Rita is happy.

I figured out what the memory was when I was at the crimescene.  It was of me.  I was a child and I witnessed my mother’s murder.  She told me not to look and that she loves me.  Then she was cut down with a chain saw.  Just like the one Rudy suggested made the blood splatters on the walls of the hotel room. 

 

Under the Surface

Under the Surface

My father was a good man.  He knew what I would become, and when he failed to dissuade me, he turned my bad habit into a blessing for society.  Even so, I kill by the Law of Harry, but I don't delude myself into thinking I am a hero.  I am a murderer, my taste in victim is just slightly more refined.  My blood collection is more than proof of my deviance.

It seems to me, blood is power.  To control someone's blood is to control their very life.  So what better way to memorialize am man than with his blood?  Looking at my neatly organized blood trophies centers me.  These slides hold the only remaining blood of my victims, and they are mine.  What was once so tenacious and vital now sits docile and inert.  I realize that my blood collection is a liability.  But, in my opinion one must stand up for the things one believes in, even if there is some danger.

But blood doesn't start out so tame.

Our bodies are plump with the stuff.  It gushes forth with the slightest provocation.  Believe me, I would know.  Some even act like if there just wasn't any blood, their wouldn't be any problem.  As if the stream of blood is the issue, instead of the gaping wound it flows from.  In my opinion, most people are ungrateful for their blood.  Most of the time, my victims blood comes the closest to escape of any part of their body.  Even as its progenitor lies dying on my table, blood slithers along the ground, feeling its way, searching for freedom.  Not that I've ever let any achieve its aspirations...  

Blood even seems to talk to me.  In my day job as a blood splatter analyst blood tells a story.  This spray says "severed artery."  This splash speaks of heavy handed butchering. 

Which brings me to this newest body.  A body with no blood... what a fascinating idea.  Body disposal without the need for trash bags or saran wrap sounds like a fantasy.  I might even call it unsportsmanlike.  But where did the blood go to?  The blood...  Well either way, with no blood at the scene I don't have much to do.  

How am I human?

 Dear Journal

April 1, 2013

You think at my age, I would be joking about all the sexual unpreparedness of my youth. It's too bad I wasn't like all the other boys; I'm a grown man now, and I am still learning the do's and don'ts of bedside manner. I had this really weird experience with Rita. I didn't really know what to do, so I just followed Hector's advice... I attempted to perform oral sex on her. He said, "Hey man, if she wants to go down the emotional road, just distract her by going down on her." She was crying to the movie I rented for us. I tried to keep my eyes open so they would start to water. I don't know what came over me, renting a movie for us, as if we are together or something. But the thing that surprises me about Rita is how much I like being with her.  She refused my offer, though. I couldn't tell if it was awkward, so I just stopped. I guess Hector's advice was wrong; that will teach you to listen to a drunk friend's advice. I got up and sat next to her; the movie was boring and I needed to reflect on what had just happened. That's when this vivid memory of my father reoccurred to me. I remember it... it was after prom and most boys were out getting lucky; I was home early. I didn't care for that kind of behavior, nor did romance interest me. I asked him, "Dad, will I ever feel it?" He said, "I hope so, son, I sure hope so." My father's words ring in my ears like it was just yesterday.

April 8, 2013

It was a relief to finally kill the couple who were drowning the Cuban immigrants. There were women and children in there; they were innocent. So, they had to die. I saw Rita hugging the victim's wife. She thought he had gotten lost at sea when he was crossing the border. They were illegal. I told Rita that I'd contact my friends in the Immigration Office to try to help find him. She refused; they would get caught if I did so. I knew it was an empty offer. I have learned the people tend to offer resources like networking when their loved ones are in trouble. I don't love Rita, but I suppose in the grand scheme of things, she is a loved one. The victim's husband washed ashore. Finally, some blood. Some evidence. When Rita hugged the victim's wife at the morgue, I felt nothing. The inability to feel has it's advantages, sometimes.

April 15, 2013

Rita and I are having dinner, alone. The kids are asleep. I remember my parents would have reflective conversations at dinner. I attempt to talk to her about the future. It's risky, and I don't know what I am going to say. But, after all, isn't that what relationships are all about? I took the risk. I asked her, "Do you ever dream for your life, for your future?" She looked up as if she were surprised and answered slowly, "Yes, do you?" I knew my answer, "I want someday, to be content, just to feel comfortable like everyone else. I want..." Then, Rita finished my sentence, "... a normal life." She said this so naturally, if I could feel I would have felt happiness, I think. I agreed, "No fame, no fortune, excitement at every turn." She said, "I'll take average, boring, and ordinary." I felt like this was abnormal, all I ever see are people doing everything they can to make money. I said, "That's weird, huh?" We both laughed. I felt awkward, but she is pleasant and so kind. I want to be more than I am. I just don't think I could ever do more than this; I enjoy it too much.

Dinner Scene:

Rita and I talk about the future. Do I really mean this?

The Moral Code

I remember when I was a child and I killed my first deer. I was hunting with my father, Harry, just doing what I had seen him do many times in the past, a normal recreational activity, that sometimes even brought food to our table. But something was different about shooting that deer. I wasn’t viewing it as food or fun, but as something fascinating and enticing. I liked to see the deer suffer and watch it die, a long, slow death. I knew this wasn’t normal, so I never told Harry my morbid feelings about killing that deer.

Fast-forward a few years later, Harry approached me asking whether I had been killing. He showed me his knives, including one that was covered in dried blood. He knew. There was no getting out of it this time. I forgot to cover my tracks, so I had to tell him. I had lost control and couldn’t fight my urge to kill again. This time, however, I killed the neighbor’s dog, but not just out of enticement or thrill. The dog was constantly barking and disrupting my mother’s sleep every night. She was sick and couldn’t afford to lose any rest. I feared that she would only get worse and die if I didn’t kill that dog first. I viewed the dog as a threat and knew that it was time to kill again. So, I took Harry’s knife and did what I felt needed to be done. I killed the dog and took him out to the woods to be discarded by nature. I didn’t feel bad until my father approached me that one day and told me that I can’t kill like that. I needed to follow the code.

So, he began training me under the code: use killing for good. “There are people out in the world who do bad things,” he said. Go after the ones who think they have gotten away. “It’s not about vengeance, it’s about retaliation”. Harry taught me that death is not the end; it’s the beginning of a chain reaction that will catch you if you’re not careful. He taught me that none of us are what we appear to be on the outside, but we must maintain appearances to survive. I must cover my tracks and not let anyone find out who I am.

Alas, here I am today, fulfilling Harry’s code and making sure that those who do bad deeds, do their time…under my knife.