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evolution of a madman: a chilling manifesto
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Evolution of A Madman: A Chilling Manifesto
Chapter 1
It was Friday the 13th, July 2007. The fragrant scent of Bvlgari and Caroline Herra hung heavy over the spacious, crimson, gold “master suite/bedroom”, as the realtor had called it, when she was showing them the house.
For some reason, she thought, she was saying something cute. Something he guessed she thought was a selling point.
Little did she know he was sold the moment he drove onto the 10 acre estate, and saw the elegant, custom French style country home, with its winding, tree lined, cobble stoned driveway that opened like a flower, exposing a 4 car garage, with its Brazilian cherry, coach styled doors.
Thinking back, he remembered telling himself, it was him, especially the courtyard, with its wishing well, that doubled as a fountain.
But that was then, the past, happier times he thought, as he propped his wiry, yet muscular torso upon a satin pillow and reached for his Newport’s.
Opening them, he smiled. Tonight was the night, the night his spirit would awaken, hungry, from its hibernation.
While fumbling for his lighter he wondered would he step up? Could he really do it? Did he have the conviction, the courage?
Reclining on his pillow, he lit a cigarette and looked at the still smooth, shapely contours of his wife’s alabaster body, lying naked, next to him.
Since their marriage, 20 years ago, he had developed an intense, deep hatred for her. Thinking back, he recalled its cause and subsequent growth.
It was 3 years after their wedding. She’d become pregnant. But, because she refused, she said, to have a bi-racial baby, she’d gotten an abortion. From that moment on, he’d hated her and everything she represented.
In his early childhood this evil emotion had been present. And even though it had influenced many of his thoughts and actions, he’d somehow controlled it, channeled it, directed it away from people.
However tonight, would be different. Instead of peoples’ poor, defenseless pets, and the homeless animals he found wandering the neighborhood, she’d be its victim.
Reflecting back, as if in an out of body experience, he could see scenes of himself at 14, crouched down in the alley, behind his grandmother’s house, between her two garages, torturing stray cats and small dogs.
He remembered the strange sensations he felt as their bodies cringed and contorted, as they slowly released their spirit, and agonized and died. Feeling a rush, he shivered.
It was weird. He could still now hear their shrill, chilling shrieks, smell their fur and their flesh burning, see the swelling of their tongues, and the popping their eyes, as their lungs gasped greedily for air. It was so vivid, so clear.
Trembling, he came to himself. He was sweating, his chest was tight, his heart was racing. What was wrong with him he wondered? Was he going mad? What was it about his slumbering wife that called up these memories, these sensations?
He knew he loathed her, but this was somehow different. The infliction of pain was what rendered life, his life, significant. This was the only thing he really enjoyed. The only thing he truly loved and understood, that and the killing.
Had Schopenhauer not said:
“Unless pain and suffering is the direct and immediate object of life our existence must entirely fail its aim.”
Had others he knew not proved this true? Had he not in the past proved it so himself? Was it not a natural fact, the divine order of things?
Yes, he mentally answered, and tonight he’d test its validity, on Heather and his grandmother.
Steeled, he puffed his cigarette and thought of the antiquated, old woman sleeping in the bedroom down the hall. She was the spring from which this deranged hatred had sprung.
He’d been 5 years old when this vile, perverted, old woman seized control of his physical growth, and his psychological development. It was immediately after his mother’s death, whose life colon cancer had slowly and painfully digested.
At the time, she, his grandmother, was a pious, self-righteous, white, fanatical, true believing, Pentecostal Christian, who like most racist of her time, detested blackness. Believing, in her heart that the most efficient and reliable method of extracting blackness from black skin was with the whip.
Thinking, he could still hear her chanting:
“Beat him with a rod and he will not die.”
It was her favorite biblical phrase. A commandment she lived, and would subsequently die by tonight.
Angrily, he mumbled something under his breath. It was insane, how there was no pleasing this woman.
He remembered how he’d become a tranquilizer for her chronic condition early in his childhood. During her periods of frustration, which were many, she’d blindfold him, shackle him to his bed with a set of handcuffs, and fiercely attack him, with a modified cat a nine tails, leaving him stripped and bleeding, like the Jesus character, in Mel Gibson’s, “Passion Of The Christ”.
Once, after one of these brutal blood rituals, he naively constructed a death chamber for her by connecting every metal object in her bedroom to the electrical circuitry of the house. Without feeling, he sat and patiently waited for her demise. His mind was made up. Today, he’d have his freedom. He’d be rid of her. Free from this inhuman shrew, this insatiable inquisitionist, this woman he hated.
He waited. Time passed. Then for some strange reason, which yet plagued him, he got up and disconnected every wire.
What had prevented him then from killing her? Why had he not struck his blow for freedom? Did he fear her? Did he love her in some perverse way? Was he, as she, starting to enjoy these extremes?
These questions and their related thoughts had and still frightened and bewildered him. He thought had he acted then, tonight’s actions wouldn’t be necessary.
His wife, stirring in her sleep, broke his pattern of thought, and brought him back to the present. Looking at her nakedness next to him, breathing serenely, so unaware of the danger that shadowed her, brought a villainous smile to his face. She’d always been so naïve, so foolishly trusting. His mind’s eye focused on their first encounter.
He’d been 28 at the time and celebrating the publishing of his first book, by getting drunk
off the advance given him for his next. He was partially intoxicated when she and a
friend entered the bar.
She’d been so enchanting then, so alive, so sure of herself, so ready to take on the world,
with her perky breast, her sexy smile and her cute, little apple bottom ass.
There’d been something animalistic about her he thought, something primal, something highly sexual. Something he hadn’t seen in any other woman he’d ever met. It had projected itself in her motion, in her gestures, in her aroma, in her vibe.
From the nervous darting of her sea blue eyes, to the devilish nibbling of her full, Scandinavian lips, he’d seen it. She was the truth. It was extraordinary.
He must have her he’d surmised, possess, break and control her. She was his. Fate had sent her to him.
Rising from his place at the bar, he’d walked over to their table, introduced himself and sat down. That was the beginning. Now, as he watched her, lying suspended between 2 worlds, he hated her, for she’d betrayed him. She’d without remorse, killed his seed. And for that there was no forgiveness, no reconciliation, no apology.
The sudden sound of thunder startled him. Springing from the bed, he hurried down the hall to his grandmother’s bedroom. Hesitating at the door, he listened, then peeked in. Softly snoring, she was lost in sleep. All was well.
With a demonic smile on his face, he tiptoed to his library. Entering, he proceeded to the glass cabinet where displayed were his grandfather’s WW2 mementos. Sliding the door aside, he removed the relic he most loved…the Samurai sword, the instrument of demise, which in the hands of a skilled swordsman, could behead, and dismember a body with one swift stroke.
Standing motionless, captivated by the gleaming steel, with its Oriental design he thought. This is it. He was at his end, his resurrection, his salvation. There was nothing left for him to do, but to do it, to erase these people from his life, to discard them as one does old, ragged clothes.
Didn’t the Bible say:
“If thy right eye offend thee pluck it out”?
Wasn’t that God’s word, the truth, our guide for living and our comfort in death?
Thinking, Laporte took a deep breath. There was a conflict brewing in his heart. He turned, walked over to the heavy oak desk by the window, opened the top drawer, took out his favorite pen, sat down and wrote a quotation by Epicurus, he remembered from his college days:
“Death is nothing to us; for the body, when it has been resolved into its elements, has no feeling, and that which has no feeling is nothing to us ”
He sat his pen down and leaned back in his soft, black, over-sized, leather chair for the last time. Lighting a cigarette, he thought.
His wife, she must be destroyed because she’d destroyed. It was her karma. It was justice, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, the way of the world, the law of retribution, nature’s way of exacting payment for her transgression.
As for his grandmother, it was a simple motive that demanded her death. She’d transferred this primitive condition onto him. In some perverse way, killing her would glorify her. She’d be pleased, his receiving pleasure from her death. It would be so melodramatic, so Zen.
He further reasoned, as he’d receive salvation, so would they. He’d become their savior, saving them from themselves, like a modern day messiah.
He stood in silence and looked around the room. It was time, time to confront his anger, time for his grief, his fear and rage to be made manifest.
Stripping the cigarette, he calmly gathered himself, took a deep breath, unsheathed the sword and walked slowly and deliberately down the hall toward the 2 bedrooms.
Evil was in the air. He could feel it. He could taste it. He could smell it. It surrounded him, was guiding him, was directing him.
Crossing the threshold of the old woman’s bedroom, he crept silently to her bedside and raised the sword above his head. Bringing it down, in one swift stroke across her neck, he grunted. Instantly, blood shot everywhere, as her head separated from her body and fell to the floor, rolling awkwardly across the room. As it came to rest, he stood and stared at it.
It was done. Finally, he’d executed the woman who had persecuted, and oppressed him for years. It was surreal, mind blowing he thought.
Suddenly, from the hallway came the sound of footsteps. Freezing, he stood quiet and motionless, as the old woman’s decapitated corpse, lay on the bed headless and bleeding.
Had his wife awaken? Had she heard him? Did she know what was happening? Was she searching for him?
He held his breath and listened, and listened some more. Everything was silent, silent as the grave.
Was his mind playing tricks on him? Was he hallucinating? Had the years of smoking weed affected his brain and his hearing? He wondered, as he turned back toward the old woman’s bed and lifted the sword into the air and brought it down again and again and again and again.
Catching his reflection in the mirror, he stopped and stood startled. Blood was everywhere, on the bed, on the floor, on the walls, on him. He looked like a butcher butchering meat.
To his surprise, it was exhilarating, an adrenaline rush, something gothic, something morbid, something he’d never felt before, something he hadn’t imagined or visualized.
At once he knew what O.J. must have been feeling, what he must have been thinking at that moment. It was non compos mentis.
He thought of Hannibal Leckter. Why he wondered?
All of a sudden he once again heard footsteps. They were coming closer and closer, closing in on him like a predator. He listened.
From the hallway came his wife’s voice. She was calling him, calling the old woman. Turning from the bed, he crept toward the door. Standing behind it, he waited. She called again.
Entering the bedroom, she immediately saw the old woman’s severed head. He hadn’t covered it up. Nor had he pulled the sheet over her lifeless body, lying bloody on the bed.
This wasn’t how he’d planned it. He’d meant to kill her in her sleep, like he’d killed the old woman. Now he had to improvise. Now he had to change his plans.
Without saying a word, he stepped from behind the door and smiled. Seeing him with the sword in his hand, she lost her voice and began to tremble. What was happening? Was she dreaming? Were her eyes really seeing what her mind was telling her she was seeing?
Before she could answer, he lifted the sword, and brought it down on her upraised arm. It cut through her flesh, as though through warm butter.
Instinctively, she recoiled and backed away from him, as he slowly moved toward her. He was trying to kill her. But why she wondered? What had she done to deserve this?
Immediately, it dawned on her. It was the abortion. He’d never forgiven her for that. She’d seen and felt his anger, but she’d denied it.
Frozen, she starred at him. She couldn’t move or speak. She felt like she was trapped in a nightmare, like she was suspended between reality and unreality, between death and dying, between heaven and earth.
This was psychotic, mad, more than she could comprehend. Her emotions fought to be recognized as ideas, as concepts, as words, as he raised the sword and swung it again.
It caught her between her shoulder and the base of her neck. She fell to the floor in agony. Standing over her, he looked down. His face was contorted, twisted, angry, filled with madness.
She looked at him. He was serious. He was going to kill her. His face would be the last face on earth she’d see. Fear filled her eyes, as she scooted and squirmed, trying not to give into her fate.
Without hesitation, he raised the sword one more time, and brought it down on her neck. Her head rolled across the old woman’s bedroom and came to rest in front of the old woman’s dresser, a few inches from the old woman’s head.
It was done, over, the whole bloody affair. He’d done it. He’d liberated himself. For the first time in his life, he felt free, free of the old woman, free of his wife, free of the rage that had always been a part of him and his thoughts. No longer he thought, was he a victim of his circumstance. He rejoiced.
The years of working out had paid off. Even though it hadn’t been done as planned, it had been done efficiently and with the strength only bodybuilding could have given him.
At least that what he told himself, as he smiled and calmly walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of orange juice.
Lighting a cigarette, he inhaled deeply and looked at the false passport and the 9mm Glock he’d bought off the street in New Orleans. They were on the marble counter in front of him.
Thinking, he took a deep breath. There was no time to waste.
Looking at his watch, he coughed, cleared his throat, and readied himself for the task at hand. Not only did he have to sanitize the old woman’s bedroom and bag up the body parts for disposal, but he also had to shower, change clothes and be out of the city and on his way to Atlanta by dawn. He looked around.
The rubber tarp, the rubber boots, the rubber apron, the black rubber gloves, he knew where they were, but where was the Clorox and the heavy-duty Glad bags he’d purchased at Lowe’s he wondered?
Crushing his cigarette, he turned to get up and search for them. He caught himself. He’d almost forgot. He had to make a quick telephone call.
He looked around. Where was that throwaway cell phone he’d got from the Arab? There it was. He picked it up, punched in a number, and hit call. A voice answered.
“Hello.” “John Carl...”
You have just finished reading Chapter 1 of “Evolution Of A Madman: A Chilling Manifesto”, a suspense thriller written by, dlhill, a songwriter turned storyteller. We hope you enjoyed it.
If you would like to purchase this book go to www.dlhillpublishing.com and click on the BUY NOW button on the HOME PAGE. It is linked to PayPal.
Again, we hope you enjoyed Chapter 1.
.
Evolution of A Madman: A Chilling Manifesto
Chapter 1
It was Friday the 13th, July 2007. The fragrant scent of Bvlgari and Caroline Herra hung heavy over the spacious, crimson, gold “master suite/bedroom”, as the realtor had called it, when she was showing them the house.
For some reason, she thought, she was saying something cute. Something he guessed she thought was a selling point.
Little did she know he was sold the moment he drove onto the 10 acre estate, and saw the elegant, custom French style country home, with its winding, tree lined, cobble stoned driveway that opened like a flower, exposing a 4 car garage, with its Brazilian cherry, coach styled doors.
Thinking back, he remembered telling himself, it was him, especially the courtyard, with its wishing well, that doubled as a fountain.
But that was then, the past, happier times he thought, as he propped his wiry, yet muscular torso upon a satin pillow and reached for his Newport’s.
Opening them, he smiled. Tonight was the night, the night his spirit would awaken, hungry, from its hibernation.
While fumbling for his lighter he wondered would he step up? Could he really do it? Did he have the conviction, the courage?
Reclining on his pillow, he lit a cigarette and looked at the still smooth, shapely contours of his wife’s alabaster body, lying naked, next to him.
Since their marriage, 20 years ago, he had developed an intense, deep hatred for her. Thinking back, he recalled its cause and subsequent growth.
It was 3 years after their wedding. She’d become pregnant. But, because she refused, she said, to have a bi-racial baby, she’d gotten an abortion. From that moment on, he’d hated her and everything she represented.
In his early childhood this evil emotion had been present. And even though it had influenced many of his thoughts and actions, he’d somehow controlled it, channeled it, directed it away from people.
However tonight, would be different. Instead of peoples’ poor, defenseless pets, and the homeless animals he found wandering the neighborhood, she’d be its victim.
Reflecting back, as if in an out of body experience, he could see scenes of himself at 14, crouched down in the alley, behind his grandmother’s house, between her two garages, torturing stray cats and small dogs.
He remembered the strange sensations he felt as their bodies cringed and contorted, as they slowly released their spirit, and agonized and died. Feeling a rush, he shivered.
It was weird. He could still now hear their shrill, chilling shrieks, smell their fur and their flesh burning, see the swelling of their tongues, and the popping their eyes, as their lungs gasped greedily for air. It was so vivid, so clear.
Trembling, he came to himself. He was sweating, his chest was tight, his heart was racing. What was wrong with him he wondered? Was he going mad? What was it about his slumbering wife that called up these memories, these sensations?
He knew he loathed her, but this was somehow different. The infliction of pain was what rendered life, his life, significant. This was the only thing he really enjoyed. The only thing he truly loved and understood, that and the killing.
Had Schopenhauer not said:
“Unless pain and suffering is the direct and immediate object of life our existence must entirely fail its aim.”
Had others he knew not proved this true? Had he not in the past proved it so himself? Was it not a natural fact, the divine order of things?
Yes, he mentally answered, and tonight he’d test its validity, on Heather and his grandmother.
Steeled, he puffed his cigarette and thought of the antiquated, old woman sleeping in the bedroom down the hall. She was the spring from which this deranged hatred had sprung.
He’d been 5 years old when this vile, perverted, old woman seized control of his physical growth, and his psychological development. It was immediately after his mother’s death, whose life colon cancer had slowly and painfully digested.
At the time, she, his grandmother, was a pious, self-righteous, white, fanatical, true believing, Pentecostal Christian, who like most racist of her time, detested blackness. Believing, in her heart that the most efficient and reliable method of extracting blackness from black skin was with the whip.
Thinking, he could still hear her chanting:
“Beat him with a rod and he will not die.”
It was her favorite biblical phrase. A commandment she lived, and would subsequently die by tonight.
Angrily, he mumbled something under his breath. It was insane, how there was no pleasing this woman.
He remembered how he’d become a tranquilizer for her chronic condition early in his childhood. During her periods of frustration, which were many, she’d blindfold him, shackle him to his bed with a set of handcuffs, and fiercely attack him, with a modified cat a nine tails, leaving him stripped and bleeding, like the Jesus character, in Mel Gibson’s, “Passion Of The Christ”.
Once, after one of these brutal blood rituals, he naively constructed a death chamber for her by connecting every metal object in her bedroom to the electrical circuitry of the house. Without feeling, he sat and patiently waited for her demise. His mind was made up. Today, he’d have his freedom. He’d be rid of her. Free from this inhuman shrew, this insatiable inquisitionist, this woman he hated.
He waited. Time passed. Then for some strange reason, which yet plagued him, he got up and disconnected every wire.
What had prevented him then from killing her? Why had he not struck his blow for freedom? Did he fear her? Did he love her in some perverse way? Was he, as she, starting to enjoy these extremes?
These questions and their related thoughts had and still frightened and bewildered him. He thought had he acted then, tonight’s actions wouldn’t be necessary.
His wife, stirring in her sleep, broke his pattern of thought, and brought him back to the present. Looking at her nakedness next to him, breathing serenely, so unaware of the danger that shadowed her, brought a villainous smile to his face. She’d always been so naïve, so foolishly trusting. His mind’s eye focused on their first encounter.
He’d been 28 at the time and celebrating the publishing of his first book, by getting drunk
off the advance given him for his next. He was partially intoxicated when she and a
friend entered the bar.
She’d been so enchanting then, so alive, so sure of herself, so ready to take on the world,
with her perky breast, her sexy smile and her cute, little apple bottom ass.
There’d been something animalistic about her he thought, something primal, something highly sexual. Something he hadn’t seen in any other woman he’d ever met. It had projected itself in her motion, in her gestures, in her aroma, in her vibe.
From the nervous darting of her sea blue eyes, to the devilish nibbling of her full, Scandinavian lips, he’d seen it. She was the truth. It was extraordinary.
He must have her he’d surmised, possess, break and control her. She was his. Fate had sent her to him.
Rising from his place at the bar, he’d walked over to their table, introduced himself and sat down. That was the beginning. Now, as he watched her, lying suspended between 2 worlds, he hated her, for she’d betrayed him. She’d without remorse, killed his seed. And for that there was no forgiveness, no reconciliation, no apology.
The sudden sound of thunder startled him. Springing from the bed, he hurried down the hall to his grandmother’s bedroom. Hesitating at the door, he listened, then peeked in. Softly snoring, she was lost in sleep. All was well.
With a demonic smile on his face, he tiptoed to his library. Entering, he proceeded to the glass cabinet where displayed were his grandfather’s WW2 mementos. Sliding the door aside, he removed the relic he most loved…the Samurai sword, the instrument of demise, which in the hands of a skilled swordsman, could behead, and dismember a body with one swift stroke.
Standing motionless, captivated by the gleaming steel, with its Oriental design he thought. This is it. He was at his end, his resurrection, his salvation. There was nothing left for him to do, but to do it, to erase these people from his life, to discard them as one does old, ragged clothes.
Didn’t the Bible say:
“If thy right eye offend thee pluck it out”?
Wasn’t that God’s word, the truth, our guide for living and our comfort in death?
Thinking, Laporte took a deep breath. There was a conflict brewing in his heart. He turned, walked over to the heavy oak desk by the window, opened the top drawer, took out his favorite pen, sat down and wrote a quotation by Epicurus, he remembered from his college days:
“Death is nothing to us; for the body, when it has been resolved into its elements, has no feeling, and that which has no feeling is nothing to us ”
He sat his pen down and leaned back in his soft, black, over-sized, leather chair for the last time. Lighting a cigarette, he thought.
His wife, she must be destroyed because she’d destroyed. It was her karma. It was justice, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, the way of the world, the law of retribution, nature’s way of exacting payment for her transgression.
As for his grandmother, it was a simple motive that demanded her death. She’d transferred this primitive condition onto him. In some perverse way, killing her would glorify her. She’d be pleased, his receiving pleasure from her death. It would be so melodramatic, so Zen.
He further reasoned, as he’d receive salvation, so would they. He’d become their savior, saving them from themselves, like a modern day messiah.
He stood in silence and looked around the room. It was time, time to confront his anger, time for his grief, his fear and rage to be made manifest.
Stripping the cigarette, he calmly gathered himself, took a deep breath, unsheathed the sword and walked slowly and deliberately down the hall toward the 2 bedrooms.
Evil was in the air. He could feel it. He could taste it. He could smell it. It surrounded him, was guiding him, was directing him.
Crossing the threshold of the old woman’s bedroom, he crept silently to her bedside and raised the sword above his head. Bringing it down, in one swift stroke across her neck, he grunted. Instantly, blood shot everywhere, as her head separated from her body and fell to the floor, rolling awkwardly across the room. As it came to rest, he stood and stared at it.
It was done. Finally, he’d executed the woman who had persecuted, and oppressed him for years. It was surreal, mind blowing he thought.
Suddenly, from the hallway came the sound of footsteps. Freezing, he stood quiet and motionless, as the old woman’s decapitated corpse, lay on the bed headless and bleeding.
Had his wife awaken? Had she heard him? Did she know what was happening? Was she searching for him?
He held his breath and listened, and listened some more. Everything was silent, silent as the grave.
Was his mind playing tricks on him? Was he hallucinating? Had the years of smoking weed affected his brain and his hearing? He wondered, as he turned back toward the old woman’s bed and lifted the sword into the air and brought it down again and again and again and again.
Catching his reflection in the mirror, he stopped and stood startled. Blood was everywhere, on the bed, on the floor, on the walls, on him. He looked like a butcher butchering meat.
To his surprise, it was exhilarating, an adrenaline rush, something gothic, something morbid, something he’d never felt before, something he hadn’t imagined or visualized.
At once he knew what O.J. must have been feeling, what he must have been thinking at that moment. It was non compos mentis.
He thought of Hannibal Leckter. Why he wondered?
All of a sudden he once again heard footsteps. They were coming closer and closer, closing in on him like a predator. He listened.
From the hallway came his wife’s voice. She was calling him, calling the old woman. Turning from the bed, he crept toward the door. Standing behind it, he waited. She called again.
Entering the bedroom, she immediately saw the old woman’s severed head. He hadn’t covered it up. Nor had he pulled the sheet over her lifeless body, lying bloody on the bed.
This wasn’t how he’d planned it. He’d meant to kill her in her sleep, like he’d killed the old woman. Now he had to improvise. Now he had to change his plans.
Without saying a word, he stepped from behind the door and smiled. Seeing him with the sword in his hand, she lost her voice and began to tremble. What was happening? Was she dreaming? Were her eyes really seeing what her mind was telling her she was seeing?
Before she could answer, he lifted the sword, and brought it down on her upraised arm. It cut through her flesh, as though through warm butter.
Instinctively, she recoiled and backed away from him, as he slowly moved toward her. He was trying to kill her. But why she wondered? What had she done to deserve this?
Immediately, it dawned on her. It was the abortion. He’d never forgiven her for that. She’d seen and felt his anger, but she’d denied it.
Frozen, she starred at him. She couldn’t move or speak. She felt like she was trapped in a nightmare, like she was suspended between reality and unreality, between death and dying, between heaven and earth.
This was psychotic, mad, more than she could comprehend. Her emotions fought to be recognized as ideas, as concepts, as words, as he raised the sword and swung it again.
It caught her between her shoulder and the base of her neck. She fell to the floor in agony. Standing over her, he looked down. His face was contorted, twisted, angry, filled with madness.
She looked at him. He was serious. He was going to kill her. His face would be the last face on earth she’d see. Fear filled her eyes, as she scooted and squirmed, trying not to give into her fate.
Without hesitation, he raised the sword one more time, and brought it down on her neck. Her head rolled across the old woman’s bedroom and came to rest in front of the old woman’s dresser, a few inches from the old woman’s head.
It was done, over, the whole bloody affair. He’d done it. He’d liberated himself. For the first time in his life, he felt free, free of the old woman, free of his wife, free of the rage that had always been a part of him and his thoughts. No longer he thought, was he a victim of his circumstance. He rejoiced.
The years of working out had paid off. Even though it hadn’t been done as planned, it had been done efficiently and with the strength only bodybuilding could have given him.
At least that what he told himself, as he smiled and calmly walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of orange juice.
Lighting a cigarette, he inhaled deeply and looked at the false passport and the 9mm Glock he’d bought off the street in New Orleans. They were on the marble counter in front of him.
Thinking, he took a deep breath. There was no time to waste.
Looking at his watch, he coughed, cleared his throat, and readied himself for the task at hand. Not only did he have to sanitize the old woman’s bedroom and bag up the body parts for disposal, but he also had to shower, change clothes and be out of the city and on his way to Atlanta by dawn. He looked around.
The rubber tarp, the rubber boots, the rubber apron, the black rubber gloves, he knew where they were, but where was the Clorox and the heavy-duty Glad bags he’d purchased at Lowe’s he wondered?
Crushing his cigarette, he turned to get up and search for them. He caught himself. He’d almost forgot. He had to make a quick telephone call.
He looked around. Where was that throwaway cell phone he’d got from the Arab? There it was. He picked it up, punched in a number, and hit call. A voice answered.
“Hello.” “John Carl...”
You have just finished reading Chapter 1 of “Evolution Of A Madman: A Chilling Manifesto”, a suspense thriller written by, dlhill, a songwriter turned storyteller. We hope you enjoyed it.
If you would like to purchase this book go to www.dlhillpublishing.com and click on the BUY NOW button on the HOME PAGE. It is linked to PayPal.
Again, we hope you enjoyed Chapter 1.
.
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Permalink Reply by donald lawurence hill on -
glad you liked it. now you need to buy the book. seriously though. tell all your friends about it. i need the promotion. again i'm glad you enjoyed chapter 1. thanks also for the encouragement...
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