September 2009 — Dead Teenagers at Make-out Point

Mark was relaxed inside his recliner, facing away. The old television captivating him was propped on top of concrete blocks and plywood. The screen crackled and the sound popped, static flickering in random bursts of blinding white.

“Peepers—” Mark turned as I lifted the gun and aimed for the base of his skull. I cocked the hammer and gave him a good warning jab with the barrel, silencing any future pussy calling.

I bent close and whispered, “Meow.”

“W-what do y-you want?” he stammered, voice distorted by fear.

I kept the gun against his head but reached into my jacket, removing the pouch shoved into the front of my jeans, “Penance.”

“What?”

“Penance,” I repeated myself, “Remorse for your unforgivable conduct.”

I eased the gun from his cranium and moved around to get a better view. The fat piece of shit was terrified. He was a bottom feeder, a man that assaulted those that couldn’t defend themselves. He robbed fathers of sons, mothers of daughters, brothers of sisters…

Taking a knee, I tossed the thin scrap of velvet onto the smelly ass carpet and worked it open with my free hand. The box casing the old style razor was in pristine condition, the only tool of the trade I’d need on this particular occasion.

Beady black eyes honed in on my face and a line of drool coated his bottom lip and chin. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to cut your wrists and bleed you out,” I stated matter-of-factly. “And when that’s done, I’m going to banish your soul to hell.”

He paled, skin going ashen. “Y-you’re w-w-what?”

I grinned at him then, sliding open the box containing my sharp and devious friend.

“Don’t worry. By the time we get there, you’ll be begging to go.”

They came then, one by one; all of the children Mark raped, tormented, and murdered formed a circle around their assailant. Their eyes were blank but I felt their rage, their pain, their contempt. They were due a rest, but before that, they would face and judge their tormentor.

The first slice of the blade was for me and I embraced the cruel white hot sting against my palm. Blood pooled freely, dripping past my fingers in a heady line of crimson. I walked the circle, hand limp, allowing the exquisite red liquid to mar the carpet and soak into the synthetic fiber.

“Come unto me,” I whispered to the children and opened my body for them to enter, willing them to exact revenge. “Return the kindness he bestowed to each and every one of you.”

When the circle was complete, sealed and bonded by my blood, I lowered the gun and extended my arms into the air. The dead couldn’t cross the threshold into the mortal world, not without a circle of blood and an offering of flesh.

The blood was on me.

The flesh was on Mark.

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