Chapter 1- First Mark

I first came up with the idea after I finished my second year of home construction at the local college. I’d come home the night of my graduation and began going through my old things, finally avoiding the laziness that had swelled up in me like a hot air balloon. I was moving an old box of tools when I tripped over the stairs I was going up. The box fell and hit the ground, the tape falling apart and a flashlight along with two screwdrivers fell out. The screwdrivers fell in a cross shape while the flashlight rolled along the floor, light clicking on and off as it rolled.

I chased after the flashlight as it rolled fast past my living room, through the kitchen and into the side room where I keep my desk. The room that I consider my office, despite the only things being in the room being a desk and a small laptop I bought at a future shop clearance sale.

Finally the flashlight had stopped at the foot of my chair. I scooped it up quick, letting out an long sigh. As I rose I watched the flashlight shine along the wall until I was fully standing and it happened to rest on a list of bullies. When I was young, there were 88 people who bullied me over the school years. I took to the habit of writing down anyone that had made fun of me. The people that thought they had a right to judge me. I was the only known orphan in all the schools I went to. For that reason, people felt like they had a right to single me out. I remember letting out another sigh and tearing the list off the wall. I’d felt complete anguish. The list stood as a constant reminder, I didn’t know why I’d started the list in the first place. Did I want to feel tortured? Did I really need the constant reminder of things that had happened in the past? That I could do nothing about now.

I’d walked back to where I dropped the screwdrivers and stopped. The list in my hand and the sight of the cross on the ground made me think. Can I really do nothing about it? Am I really as helpless as they wanted me to feel? Or am I stronger than they all thought? Should I let them get away with what they did? No, I shouldn’t.  Now it’s time for my revenge.

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The knife pierces my skin as I implant the thin line on my lower forearm. The first kill. First of many. When I was young, there were 88 people who bullied me over the school years. I took to the habit of writing down anyone that had made fun of me. The people that thought they had a right to judge me. I was the only known orphan in all the schools I went to. For that reason, people felt like they had a right to single me out.

Number 1: Kenneth Martin. Grade 1, Kenneth pointed and laughed at me. It was the day after my parents had died, and he saw me come to school on the city bus, because I had nobody to drive me. The neighbours had heard gunshots and became some of the only people to ever actually report a crime in Vanier. The police waved me off. Left me to fend for myself in the slums of the worst part of Ottawa. Too many calls in parts of town that were actually salvageable. He’d only made fun of me that day, although he had plenty of chances to pick on me when we had been in school from grade 1 to grade 4. Even though it was just that once, he was the first person to actually bully me, and that meant something.

When I killed Kenneth earlier this morning, I felt a certain type of satisfaction that I hadn’t felt in a long time. His body was perfectly positioned in a standing pose by a thin layer of rope. His finger pointed out at the local bus stop near where he created his living space. His mouth turned up in a glued together smile. His eyes showing the real fear he had felt right before I thrust a knife into his stomach.

Kenneth was quite easy to find. He was the only one on my list who never got an actual job. He’d worked at the Harvey’s on Merivale for a while, before he got fired. I don’t think he understood that you weren’t allowed to put onions on a burger when someone says that they are allergic to onions, just because you don’t like the color shirt they were wearing. After that, employers wouldn’t look at him, his parents disowned him and he ended up on the streets.Bad for him, good for me. The easiest victim. Skinny, weak, scared. Just how I felt back then.

I hear sirens in the distance. I only live a couple blocks away from where Kenneth made his home out of some old wood, cardboard, and other materials he must have wandered the streets looking for. The sirens come closer and closer. For a moment I start to shake. What if they found him earlier. What if those sirens I hear are actually sirens coming for me. I don’t think anybody saw me. It was 3am when I killed him and it didn’t look like anybody was around. The sirens come closer.

Putting a cloth over the blood dripping off my forearm, I run to the front of the house and look out the window. I plant my face right up against the edge of the big rectangular mirror, trying to see just that bit farther. The lights from the police shine across the pavement as the sound gets louder and they get closer. My brain is telling me to move. To get things ready because they are coming for me. They found me quickly and will stop me from completing the list I just began. My body has other plans though, and stays pressed against the window. I can see the car now, two cars. They look to be going 70 kilometers per hour. In a 40 km per hour zone too. Although Meadowlands’ speed limit is so hard to follow.

It isn’t until the vehicles whiz on by that I notice I was holding my breath. I feel the air slowly passing back through my tightly pressed together teeth. They could be going to the other side of the city for all I know. They wouldn’t be going that fast if something were going on in Vanier, that’s for sure. They could be responding to my Kenneth or maybe Orleans or Barrhaven.

I slowly make my way back to my office. I need to research my next victim: Luke Williams. Last I heard, he became a plumber. Funny considering he gave me a swirly in the last couple days of grade 1. A quick google search brings me to Luke’s facebook profile. Age 21. Works at Flush it Plumbing Inc. In a relationship with Cindy Calters. Dumb people, making their facebook profile public. Look at what a public facebook profile will get him, murdered with a side of revenge.

Thud, thud, thud. My door is knocked on. “Open up! It’s the police.”