The murderer

swimmerguy's picture

I’ve never tried any sorts of real writing... I’ve thought about it often, and now I decided to try it. I hope you like it, but I hope none of you have read the books I have read enough to realize how heavily some parts of the books are borrowed… Don’t kill me.

The Murderer

He heard the patter of the rain.
The murderer associated the rain with many things. He associated it with the best times of his life, the worst times, his first love, his true love,
loss, change…
The sound of the rain was masked by the walls, and the sound of the electronic beeping of the EEG, from both his bed and Ms. Durkee’s bed, across the room, the curtains drawn.
The murderer stared up at the ceiling, passing the last few breaths left in his life. The murderer was dying.
He still remembered the time when the bank man had come to his house with the paper. The knock on the door, the calm, practiced words
(the lien has already been placed)
coming off the smooth tongue of that
( and the foreclosure is on it’s way)
officious prick.
He remembered staring at that officious little prick, looking at his little mustache. He could see why they called it a handlebar mustache. He felt like grabbing it right there and just pulling it off his face. He’d show him a thing or two.
The thought gave him immense pleasure.
Just pulling the man into the house, so quietly, so darkly. No one would ever know. Except the man, and the murderer, of course. But neither of them were going to tell, right?
Then, all of a sudden the racking pains coming from his chest, the concerned look of the officious little prick.
He couldn’t remember much afterwards, just fleeting glimpses.
The lights of the ambulance, the immaculate, clean halls of the hospital, the squeaky wheel on the gurney.
Nothing concrete.
Then he was here, passing off his last few breaths, staving off his inevitable and soon death as long as possible.
The EEG beeped in his ear.
He cast a small glance over, looking at the little contraption.
“Goddamn it, can’t you see I’m trying to THINK!” the murderer said, and grabbed the book off the bedside table (The Pillars of the Earth) and smashed the little beeping machine with it. The small metal box squeaked away on it’s little rollers, skittering away into a corner.
The room was silent again, save for the rain, and the beeping of Ms. Durkee’s EEG on the other side of the room.
Looking up at the ceiling, the murderer silently thought he had never wanted a drink more than now.


Obviously, this is not all. If you like, say so. If you don’t say so, and I won’t bother wasting my time to write the rest…


Dracofangxxx's picture

I certainly

Like it :3
You're twisted and perverted. I like that in a person.

elph's picture


...the prick survived? Maybe he fired a projectile? Curious minds waiting...

Usurper's picture

Cool cool cool

I'm showing this to my friend he's a writer too and he'll like it he writes dark stuff so he probably will like it his last story or at least his one he is writing has like rape murder and shit so you know it might be simple and stuff so there peter pan I didn't say 'and shit'.