by N. Immanuel
Velez
Creak.Creak. Thwank.Creak.
Creak. THUD!Creak.Creak. Thwank.THUD!
The man stared into the darkness
without blinking.
Creak.Creak. Thwank.Creak.
Creak. THUD!Creak.Creak. Thwank.THUD!
Two foam earplugs were lost
among the sheets of his bed.
Creak.Creak. Thwank.Creak.
Creak. THUD!Creak.Creak. Thwank.THUD!
The wax earplugs had long
since fallen out as well.
Creak.Creak. Thwank.Creak.
Creak. THUD!Creak.Creak. Thwank.THUD!
The man stared into the darkness
without blinking.
Another cup of coffee was
all he could do to keep his head up and stare back at the computer’s stoic face. The Tylenol wasn’t strong enough
to keep the stiffening neck pain at bay. The flotsam of the anger from the morning’s perpetual traffic jam had not completely
drifted away yet, and probably wouldn’t as he new his tardiness would beckon more fire and brimstone from the dragon
he knew only as his boss; his slave master.
Two more cups of coffee, eight
drops of Visaline, two harrowing meetings with the whip-wielding serpent, and nine hours (stolen and lost forever) later he
found himself right back in the middle of a nightmarish traffic jam. He looked around and saw only lunatics, deranged humans,
completely broken and out of order in the center of one large cesspool of an insane asylum. Five days out of a seven-day week.
Fifty weeks out of a fifty-two week year. Fifty-four years out of a seventy-year lifespan. That’s how it’s going
to be, eh? He shuddered to think.
He walked into an empty apartment
and placed a heap of crinkling papers on the shelf with a sigh of relief. Junk mail (advertisements!) and bills. Those who
hoped to steal his money, and those who already have. Loud shrieks broke through the front door from screaming banshees let
loose by a classless mother. The same bass was throbbing through the adjacent walls like the nagging of a bitter shrew. Repetition,
repetition, repetition.
He watched television for
hours while making sure to press mute during every commercial break (advertisements!) and trying to read instead. His eyes
always drifted back up to the screen revealing the same commercial he just saw ten minutes before that, and ten minutes before
that, and ten minutes before that. Repetition. He surfed the internet for an hour, which he would have done at the plantation
but his slave master made sure to take that away from him; of course, the conniving snake would then go surf the net herself,
probably looking up the history of hypocrisy. The temperature of his blood went up a touch higher for every pop-up that invaded
his screen (advertisements!). He went to read for a while before the clock struck two.
Five and a half hours. 2 AM
until 7:30. That was all the sleep he needed to function the next day, provided, of course, that he actually was able to get
a good night’s sleep. But, as the night before last and the night before that (repetition) the noise from directly above
his bedroom was there to make sure that didn’t happen, like a recurring visit from a sexually abusive parent. The ruckus
would sometimes start when he would retire, but definitely always woke him up at around 5 AM, two and a half hours before
he had to get up for another useless day.
Creak.Creak. Thwank.Creak.
Creak. THUD!Creak.Creak. Thwank.THUD!
The man stared into the darkness
without blinking.
The next day he called the
front office from his building of incarceration. It was the third time as he had called twice before complaining about the
loud gospel music that came from the tenant upstairs- loud music that only came on at around 5 AM on Saturday and Sunday.
After every call the music stopped for one weekend and then came back. He lost hope after the second complaint. Now, the woman
promised to have two handy men enter the tenant’s apartment and examine the floor as soon as possible, no later than
Friday. He felt somewhat better. Enough to shrug off his shoulders the sickening fact that he had to stay late because of
someone else’s error.
Two nights later he fell asleep
to the sound of silence. He most certainly expected to be woken up at five, but his eyes opened to the sound of an annoying
alarm; annoying, but welcoming in comparison. He called the front office the second they opened and inquired about his complaint.
The woman said that the two men had lifted the tenant’s rug and found that the floorboard was loose, causing the infernal
racket; not to mention that the tenant was a woman who was above average in weight. His lips curled up and found something
they’d been lacking- a smile. Even when his witch of a boss chastised him for something she told him to do, he ignored
her and thought only of peaceful nights and a painless neck.
Two harmonious weeks went
by before one morning at exactly 5:13 AM his eyes burst open to the disheartening sound of creaking wood- and it was louder.
He shrieked as he threw his alarm clock against the wall and watched it shatter.
Creak.Creak. Thwank.Creak.
Creak. THUD!Creak.Creak. Thwank.THUD!
The man stared into the darkness
without blinking.
Nearly three hours later he
walked out of his apartment with circles under his eyes and a stiff neck. By chance, he happened to see the cursed woman from
above walk out as well. She was much larger than the front office woman had intimated. He made sure to avoid eye contact as
a flood of hate rushed through his veins. The object of his animosity was no longer nebulous; she was real, and above all
else, human. As he pushed his key into his car door, a dubious thought entered his mind and a decision was made. There would
be no more calls to the front office. He had done everything the way a normal civilian would do it, and they failed him as
he knew they would; the system failed him. There would be no more games, and if any shred of normalcy was left in his body
it was completely gone by the time he survived the morning quagmire.
He would need a torque wrench
and a hook pick. The wrench would be shoved inside the keyhole with only enough pressure to keep the wrench in. This applies
pressure to the cylinder, which is absolutely necessary. The cylinder is exactly that, a metal cylinder that surrounds the
key once one is inserted in the lock. Once the wrench is in he would insert the hook pick, which he would use to raise a set
of pins that are within the cylinder. When a key is inserted the specific ridges on the key raise the lower pins (or key pins),
which, in turn, raises the higher pins (or set pins) so that they rise above the shear line. Once the set pins are above the
shear line the cylinder turns and the lock opens. He would use the pick to raise each key pin one at a time. Once a pin crossed
the shear line a ‘click’ would sound and the cylinder would slightly rotate. The dead bolt would have more pins
than the knob lock (possibly up to 8), so that one would take longer. At least, that is what his friend said. He didn’t
believe his friend until his friend actually showed him how it was done. Another rare smile crossed his lips.
He was staring at the television
while practicing opening a lock on his couch. He had bought the lock, but stole the wrench and hook from the same store. He
did not want those items traced back to him. The lock picking was extremely frustrating, but he would not wilt. The monotony
of this practice, coupled with the incredibly boring program before him, caused his mind to drift. He thought only of misery,
murder, and bitterness. His rumination culminated in two discoveries; well, at least to him anyway. He discovered why the
average age of a serial killer was 35-40; because it took that long for him to finally snap, for the world of shit that he
lives in to finally spill over, for him to realize that it’s about time to get revenge on all the other human beings
that have purposefully ruined his life for all those many years; you say that’s life, get with the program, stop crying?
I say it’s about time you die. He also discovered why old men are so bitter. It is not, like most people say, that they
simply have a mean disposition, that they hate people because they simply hate. No, that old man is a result of living on
planet earth for 85 years, life and people turned him this way; he may have been happy once a long, long time ago. What happened
dear friend? Life happened. That’s how it’s going to be, eh? He shuddered to think.
Creak.Creak. Thwank.Creak.
Creak. THUD!Creak.Creak. Thwank.THUD!
The man stared into the darkness
without blinking.
Within the two and half months
it took for him to finally jimmy a 5-pin lock in 20 seconds, he had stolen the rest of the artifacts he would need. A large
set of two-handed wire cutters that would be more than enough to clip the thin chain that allowed the front door to open a
few inches, a pair of shoes 3 sizes too large, a pair of black gloves, long sleeve black shirt and pants, a short sleeved
black shirt, charcoal, a phony tattoo, a pair of white contact lenses (these he had to steal from a friend), a dark-colored
and thick, plastic tarp (large), electrical tape, and, of course, a gigantic, flesh-ripping knife.
Creak.Creak. Thwank.Creak.
Creak. THUD!Creak.Creak. Thwank.THUD!
The man stared into the darkness
without blinking (for the last time).
He decided that a Thursday
morning would be the one that witnessed the evil woman’s last breath; at least he hoped. She would have to not emit
a sound for 3 hours up until 3:42 AM, which is when he would slink up like a surreptitious snake. He liked not having to singularly
decide himself when she would die, but rather leaving it up to fate, God, or the Devil. It mattered little who it was because,
now, he had an accomplice. Had she any inkling of what was to happen? Did she feel something strange around her, did the hair
on her arms prick up for no reason, did she have prophetic dreams, did she go about her day in a completely different fashion
than she had for the past 10 years and had no idea why? He didn’t care.
Fate granted his request by
making sure the woman didn’t make a sound in the early hours of that Thursday morning. He exited his apartment looking
like a black ninja with all white sinister eyes bent on destruction. The shoes he wore were 3 sizes too large so that if he
left footprints the cops would think it was a man of at least 6’2”, the short sleeved shirt was used as a ninja
mask while charcoal covered his showing skin, and the contacts smothered the real eye color. The tattoo (which was really
a small sticker with a transparent background) was affixed on his right forearm in case there was a struggle and she survived;
he’d make sure she saw the tattoo knowing that that would be exactly what she would tell the police. The knife was shoved
in the center of the tarp so that the blade protruded from one end and the handle the other. The electrical tape secured it
and made sure that blood would not seep through. He would wrap her sleeping form with the tarp (not tightly, just loosely
thrown over her) and hack away; the tarp would protect him from all the blood that would be released. Then, he would leave
all his loose artifacts behind (nary a fingerprint, mind you) so that he would never be in possession of the murder weapon
(hide it? They always find it!). The next day he would burn his attire and anything else that was remotely related to the
necessary act. He deftly ran up the staircase with the wire cutter and folded up tarp (it looked like a large square with
the handle of the knife sticking out the bottom) in each arm, and knelt before the only barrier that kept death out of the
apartment of a large, rude woman; he did this in less than 10 seconds.
He stood motionless at the
entrance of her room looking at her rotund frame move up and down rhythmically; she wore no cover and lay on her back as if
her chest was begging for an end to its misery of having to breathe for such an obese body. It had taken him nearly 35 minutes
to enter the apartment, and would have been longer if the door knob had been locked, but it wasn’t- a little help from
his accomplice. The dead bolt lock took MUCH longer than he had anticipated, the difference between theory and practice. A
tsunami of fear had flooded his body when he snapped the thin chain with the wire cutters; he could have sworn the sound would
wake her up. But that never happened, which only added to his belief that this was destined to occur. His accomplice had ordained
this.
Ten minutes may have gone
by before he realized that he was frozen stiff. He expected this, for thinking about an action is much different than putting
it in motion, but this was like cement had hardened over him. All of a sudden he thought that this whole situation wasn’t
even her fault, how could she be to blame for faulty wooden planks? It was the damn owner of this apartment complex that should
be in the bed before him. What? Hello? Is that a cricket I hear? Is that the chirping of a…conscience? Was Jiminy whispering
in his ear? No – ADVERTISEMENTS! – this couldn’t be happening now! He – REPITITION! – was this
close and had – SLAVE MASTER! – come this far! Throw – NECK PAIN! – away your fear! Take – TRAFFIC!
– control! The time – THUD! – is – CREAK! – now!!! The suffering!! Aghghghhgghg!!! NOW!!!!!
He had once been a sane man,
now turned in. He broke.
He jumped on her like a hyena
on a zebra. He surmised that he must have slashed her vocal cord because she did not elicit a scream, but rather gurgling
sounds of what must have been blood spewing out of her mouth. The tarp covered her face and body so he couldn’t see
the massive blood and wreckage, which was another point of the tarp- anything to disassociate him from the act. Her arms flayed
up from beneath the tarp (they were still covered, though), but only for about 10 seconds and around 20 stabs. At this moment
he discovered something else: why it was that many murder victims attacked with knives were filled with a ridiculous amount
of stab wounds. Because the murderer had no idea how many it took for the victim to die, and he HAD to make sure the victim
died. They always overestimated the force needed on their first try. They were novices. Just like him.
It had been half a year before
the owner of the apartment complex decided to take the loss and condemn the apartment. No one was willing to rent the place,
especially since the murderer was never found; it was an unsolved mystery. The police were clueless with no suspects and no
motive (what a perfect hidden motive, eh? Who would have thought that she was killed over some noise?) They had managed to
trace the artifacts back to the stores from which they were stolen, but there were no surveillance tapes. He had made sure
of that. The cashiers had not remembered anyone suspicious. (Boy, what help that powerful accomplice had been.)
One day, the two handy men
from before were in the late woman’s room fixing up some loose ends. Mike, who was kneeling on the floor, noticed something
and motioned to Jorge to come over.
“Why the hell did you
do such a shitty job? You never put the carpet back right. Look, there’s even a hole here.” Mike was fingering
a hole in the carpet near the wall, which gave way with just a little force.
“I don’t know.
There’s no way I would have done that. Look, there’s some thread here.” Jorge was down on the floor and
found that the thread was keeping together two pieces of carpet that had been ripped in a careless manner. They both kept
pulling the two pieces of rug apart like they were parting the red sea.
“That’s strange,”
said Mike, “the job we did should have lasted for years. But, look- the floorboard is all loose and ragged, worse than
before!”
“But, that doesn’t
make any sense,” Jorge responded. “It’s almost as if that woman did it on purpose.”
“No, shit! But, why
in the world would anybody want to do that?”
