EXERCISE Different Perspectives #5 - The Murderer

Discussion in 'REFINING WRITING' started by Cammysnek, Jan 12, 2014.


  1. The last two weeks we've focused on inanimate objects, but now we've returned to the realm of the living. And the most certainly alive, are those who are not only not dead, but are alive so much as to cause death: the murderer. But why? What is the motive? There is always a reason, even if it's not wholly conscious, or lacks the ability to be verbalised. Could it be a remnant of a trauma? Self defense? Revenge? It's a dangerous place to go, into the head of a killer. But to complete this challenge, you must take yourself there.






    *DISCLAIMER: Iwaku does not support the demonizing or stereotyping of mental illnesses. As writers, we should devote ourselves to accurate portrayals of real-world diseases and/or disabilities and treat them with respect. If you choose to use a mental illness as part of your writing, research is your best first step. After all, the whole point of a challenge is to practice better writing!*
     
  2. It was surprisingly easy.

    He had handed her the gun -- begged her to shoot. He pleaded for her to end his suffering repeatedly over the course of their marriage, and though she understood he meant a divorce, last night, she had the courage to pull the trigger and let the bullet do the talking: over his dead body.

    Her heels clicked on the newly furbished floors as she strode over to his shameless husk. If he had just been a good husband, she thought. No late nights at the office. More nights out on the town. A little more attention. Less cheating on her with some teeny-bopper. He might have survived. She might have even granted him the divorce -- if he had given her half of the assets. But, no, he wanted to be a selfish bastard, and so, he had to die.

    She peered down, admiring her handiwork, and learned something: her aim had improved; she was no long veering to the left. A satisfied smile cross her face as she finished wrapping the body in a tarp and driving it out to the old lake house. Finally, she was a widow.
     
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  3. Steven was blankly staring at the wall, scarred by those who used the room before him. He knew that he deserved to be here, he wasn’t going to protest. What he did was wrong, and he knew it. How can one ever repay the endless debt that taking someone’s life causes? What else can you pay with than with your own life?


    It happened on a hot summer's day, during the school's vacation. Steven and his friends were roaming around in the city, with no real goal in their mind. The fact that they were already drunk didn’t help things along either. His friends had tried to defend themselves by claiming that they didn’t knew what they were doing, but Steven didn’t accept that. He knew what he was doing when he opened the bottle. He knew what he was doing when he bought the liquor in the first place. He could’ve avoided it all by just not buying alcohol to begin with. No, Steven considered himself fully responsible for the events that happened then.


    That kid, how old was he, eight? Nine, tops.The child’s face came back to stare at him every single night; another part of his punishment. The only militating factor was that the boy probably never saw it coming. He just came running out of an alley, chasing a ball thrown by his friends. In his intoxicated state, Steven’s reaction time was impaired so much that he didn’t even stop until after the impact. His friends urged him to keep going, to get away before anyone else could see him. He couldn’t. With what little reason was left in his mind, he stumbled out of the car and towards the limp body on the ground, a crimson stain already forming around it. Two lifeless eyes were staring at the sky, never to sparkle again. Two pale lips, never to speak again. Two broken legs, never to run again. And he, Steven, had caused this. His stomach turned and twisted, the contents of which forcing itself back up Steven’s throat. He could hear cries in the distance, yelling a name: “Marco! Marco!” The sobbing of a woman, cradling her child. The crying of other children, scared and confused. Sirens blaring in the distance, a sign of help that would not arrive in time, that could’ve never arrived in time.


    Whenever Steven closed his eyes, this scene would replay again. And he knew that, even when he was released from prison, his punishment would never be over…


    ---------------------------------------------------------------------

    Nobody said it had to be premeditated murder, right?
     
    #3 Neobullseye, Jan 14, 2014
    Last edited: Jan 14, 2014
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  4. ^ Props to the folks above me.

    Why do you they always get in the way? What's the point?

    James fired again. Mayor Johnson's head snapped backwards violently and the crowd screamed. The Mayor's body lay across the bodyguard who took the first shot in the left eye. James quickly stowed his cold rifle into one of the empty storage barrels on his wide rolling care and slowly crawled back towards the service elevator. The warm, blue spring sky smiled down at him and he grimaced at the pain of his shoulder scars. He brushed a speck of dust from his worn construction fatigues.

    50,000. What the fuck am I going to do with 50,000.

    He checked his tarnished brass pocket watch. 4:32.
    He stroked the small stained picture of a precocious young brunette girl. He felt his eyes stinging and took the rickety old elevator to the ground floor. The sterile white tiled office building was completely deserted. He waltzed through it's cavernous skeleton and flipped off the security cameras. Sirens blared outside. a police line had already been established and ambulances had arrived on the scene. James smirked.

    Made their jobs easy, heh.

    James pulled the cart on the outskirts of the swirling, screaming crowd and continued down the street. He came to the abandoned construction site, his drop point, and hid the cart in plain site next to identical suspects. His boots crunched on the parched, red earth. He took off his helmet and wiped away the sweat. Replaced his helmet. He patted the barrel, "Thanks, girl. You've been amazing."

    James left the decrepit site and headed east. Green within the sterile city. He turned and entered the park. Trees shifted easily in the warm wind and children laughed with their mothers. James smirked and continued. He reached the rows and rows of gray headstones. He walked on and on through the tidy corpses. He stopped and turned to one.

    Kristine Riley
    Our angel


    1997-2011

    James knelt, moved to touch the headstone. Stopped himself. a single tear ran down his cheek. Then an ocean. He cried. He cried. He cried some more. He pulled out his glock 9 from it's holster. He took out his pocket watch, opened it and laid it gingerly on the headstone. He put the pistol in his mouth.
     
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  5. The Four-Strike Killer
    Dean had been waiting for this moment. She had been waiting for the right opportunity to strike. The countless nights that she had watched him, observing his every move. The way he works, his whole schedule. It was this night that she finally had his timeline mapped out fully in her head. And she was ready to put it to good use. Knowing what was soon to happen brought a sinister smirk to her face. He won't know what hit him before it's too late. He'd already be dead. She was sure of it. So sure, in fact, that she had sent him a message to him, as clear as day. Here's the inevitable: I'm coming for you, the note had said, the letter signed out by 'An Old Friend'.

    Dean was standing just outside Johannes Butch's apartment building in Chicago, Illinois. She was decked out in your typical burglar attire: all black. Black gloves. Black hat. Black pants, sweater, everything. She was prepared. The air about her was sinister. Just as Johannes Butch and his three, now-deceased buddies. The three sons-of-bitches had it coming, Dean thought, and now it's your turn. She giggled evilly, loving the fact that she had the upper-hand. She knew that, right now, Johannes had his shotgun he always hid in the coat closet of his apartment. He would be posted up on his couching, waiting for anything to happen. She knows because she had just been watching him just before she got ready to push forward in her task.

    He's scared, the poor thing. Well, fucker, you should have thought about that six years ago when I was in your current, unlucky shoes, Dean thought, beginning to walk into the apartment building complex, pulling down her mask over her face. Though she did not know, with every step she took, somewhere in Johannes' apartment, his heart pounded harder and harder against his chest, sweating accumulating above his brow.

    Once she reached the his floor, she went to stand in front of his door. Descending from her height to that of a child's, she retrieves the lock pick gun from her waist band. It took her a couple of tries to get the lock undone, but she did finally hear a 'click' sound. So, she stood, deposited the lock pick gun back in the front of her waist band, and moved herself to the side, away of the doorway view. She could hear the cock of a gun through the door, and she grinned. Oh, my sweet, you will not get to use that any time soon, she taunted from inside her head, placing her hand on the door knob. She did not hesitate to twist and push the door open.

    "You had better get on! I know you're the 'Old Friend'! I'll shoot you with no hesitation!" Johannes shouted. Dean heard shuffling and knew he was cautiously getting up and scooting toward the open door. She reached behind her, taking out the gun and the silencer she had stored under her shirt and snug under her belt. She carefully and quietly brought it to her forefront, screwing the silencer on to the gun.

    A few seconds passed, and she was sure he was right at the door. Dean could hear his rapid breathing, so she readied her gun. And, once he step out, she pointed her gun at his head, saying, "Get inside, now." She pressed the gun to his forehead and pushed him towards the doorway. He stumbled in, dropping his shotgun, and she closed the door, locking it.

    After picking up his shotgun, Dean made steady, onward steps, he continued to trip over himself, finally landing on his couch. "Hello, Johannes Butch," she began, putting down his shotgun and removing her mask to reveal herself, "I would be that 'Old Friend'." Though she had grown a bit, Johannes could not mistake her for anyone else. She was Dean Wright, the girl who's life he had so terribly changed.

    "Y-you're that girl Dean. From-from the Wright family," he acknowledged.

    "Yes. Surprise!" she returned.

    "Look, Dean, I-I'm sorry about--," he began, however she cut him off with her laugh.

    "Six years too late, Johannes Butch. Look, I'm on a tight schedule, so I'd like to speed things along here. Okay, you had it coming, blah, blah, blah. Your buddies suffered and so will you, yadda, yadda, yadda." Pwoom! A gun shot, so surprisingly silent, had be fired, right in his left kneecap. Johannes howls from the pain.

    "Pl-please, Dean, wait. NO--," he cut himself short.

    "And this is for my father. This is for my mother. This is for my sister. And these two are for me," she said, shooting off rounds after each sentence. She had shot two bullets into his after her latter sentence. And she was done. It was over. Far quicker than she'd imagined.

    Not waiting to contemplate, Dean tucked her gun back in her belt with the safety on, took his shotgun, and fled, his body to be discovered sooner or later by a neighbor.
    -----
    She returned home by 12:45 AM. Dean had to drive a little ways away in order to bury both guns. Though she did wear gloves, Dean could not risk it. So, after she had buried them, she drove back home, chanting in her head, My mission, my goal, is accomplished.

    When she walked into the house, she immediately grabbed the pajamas under the couch and settled for taking a shower in the bathroom downstairs, as to not make noise and awaken her sleeping beauty, Theo Matthews. And, when all was done, she quietly scurried upstairs to their room, where Theo slept with a loud snore. Dean tip-toed to the bed, and ever-so-gently slid under the comforter. Theo moved when she stopped, his arm wrapping around her body. Dean smiled, and she closed her eyes, ready to be taken under by the slumber that held Theo hostage.

    Dean knew Theo Matthews was a murder detective.

    She didn't know he had been assigned to investigate her killings.