A World Like This
Josh Neary
THEY always told me to be a leader instead of a follower. I said, “you first.” My
name is James Altiwood, and I am a fairly successful writer. Well, I used to be, that is. My
life has fallen to shambles in the past two years of my life, which in turn has created the
monster that I am today. Actually, that’s a bit harsh. To others I may be just that. . . but from
my point of view, I am doing what is necessary to right the wrongs I have made in my life.
I have killed many times in my life, and probably will again. Very soon. If I follow my
current pattern, my next victim will be a middle aged white male. He’d be a widower with
two kids. You’d be surprised how many of these men exist, especially in my area.
The greater Metropolitan area. I never really seen what was so “great” about it.
Over populated, dense area. No room for any privacy of your own. I guess that’s why I’ve
been what some would call a “shut-in” for the most of my days. There’s just too much for me
to keep up with out there. Nonstop traffic, kids everywhere. . Now don’t get me wrong, I
don’t mind the kids so much. They remind me of the few good memories I still have left. It’s
the parent’s that really hurt a nerve within me. Their over-protective, snobby self’s.
Coddling them, hiding them from the evils of the world, how it truly is. My goal in all
of this is not to damage a child’s psyche or anything of the sort. I actually believe that I do
them more good than harm in the long run. Yes, what I do is devastating at first, I would
never ever argue that point, assuming I’d have someone to argue it with, which has yet to
happen but I’m hopeful. Another point I’d like to drive home is that I don’t do this simply
because of the way some parent’s tuck their children away from the harsh realities of life, it’s
also the way that they force a life upon them. Pushing their son to sports, their daughters to
dancing, among other things. Don’t even get me started on the pageant shows that have been
all the rage for the past decade or two, feeding the masses something that can be classified no
less than soft-core material for perverts and child molesters around the globe. Has it ever
crossed your mind that some of these “judges”, and I use this term loosely, are simply up to
no good? I’m rambling now. I got up from the La-Z-Boy recliner I was sitting in and clicked
off the TV. My thoughts often drift to a point where I lose track. I can’t forget the task at
hand. I won’t. Not this time. Things can’t go like they did with Mrs. Schafer. What a trophy
she’d have been. If it wasn’t for her fucking dog that bitch was mine. Usually I scout my prey
for days, but this one was a pleasure kill. I got the urge as I passed her in the super market,
she had trouble carrying the watermelons into her cart. I happily obliged. She never noticed
me follow her home. No idea I was in her living room crouched behind the sofa, waiting for
my cue to end her pathetic existence. The dog must have been outside while she was out,
Mookie I think his name was. Before I knew it, the mangy bastard sniffed me out. Luckily I
got out of the front door before the police arrived. It’s worrisome how they may know my
features now. At least not my face, I’m not that stupid. Although sometimes I question
if it’s worth going out in eighty degree weather with a mask on my face. The last incident
confirmed that it was. And so another opportunity awaits. Another chance to right a wrong.
I grabbed my keys and opened the door to leave my apartment. At my feet lays the paper.
I kick it aside and unlock my car doors with my remote. Off I go. Can’t fuck this one up.
AS Don Conklin peered out his dining room window, he marveled at the beauty of the day
itself. A crisp fall day in Maine, birds going south for the upcoming winter season, a slight
breeze gently knocking the slender arms of the trees he had planted himself so long ago. Jim
had always been something of an environmentalist. Not an extremist, to be clear. Never
before had he protested the demolition of a forest but he enjoyed the simplistic complexity
that was nature. As he marveled at the beauty in the leaves as they changed from their
standard color of green to a stimulating shade of orange, he felt a tap on the shoulder.
“Here’s your tea, hon.” she said as she placed the tray she carried it with on the oak
wood end table.
“Oh, thanks darlin’.” he remarked as he gave her a peck on the cheek. He continued, “If I
ever wondered why I took you as my wife, you’ve laid any doubts to rest in these last couple
of years, Sara. You’ve taken care of me better than the hospital staff themselves, believe it or
not. . . and I just want you to know that it’s very much appreciated.”
Sara was about to speak but she was cut off by Don. The expression on her tired face
was one of patience. It was just something she developed over the years, something she had
to adopt if she were to be Donald’s wife. She was three years older than Don, but yet was still
in relatively fair health. Better than her husband’s by leaps and bounds anyways. Don had
three open heart surgeries in the past ten years. Many nights Sara thought she would lose her
beloved husband of thirty-two years, but he was a fighter. She admired his physical strength
much in the same way that he treasured her emotional courage. It was a peculiar situation,
whereas the man with the health issues seemed more healthy than his companion who was
given a clean bill of health.
“Now I know what you’re gonna say, Sara. You’re gonna go on and tell me that it’s no
big deal, and that you’re obligated as my wife. . . but the fact of the matter is, no you’re not
obligated to this. I know plenty of women that would have up and left in this very same
situation, so spare me the bullshit.” exhausting his point even further. Don proceeded to tell
her that he loved her and they reminisced about the 70’s, what they considered to be the
peak of their marriage. It wasn’t that the last twenty or so years had been bad, but everything
was still fresh then, and they were young.
They met in middle school, but were the furthest thing from high school sweethearts.
Their love blossomed in 1964 when Don took in a friend of a friend after a devastating house
fire. Sara’s first impression of Don was that he was nothing more than a flirt, a typical guy for
the times. The first day that they met was at UCLA in 1964. Don had seen Sara on the first
day of his third semester; her first. He had quite the reputation about him, one that spread
like wildfire to her ears. Rumors were spilled night and day once Don made it known he was
in fact interested in her. Both of their inner circles alike were against the idea of their
potential partnership. Sara’s best friend, Annie did not really get along with Don, but found
a way to co-exist for Sara. If she were around today, she’d surely tell you how little she
actually cared for him and although she’d never admit it, she grew quite fond of him. Much
of the disdain she held against him stemmed from a couple of immature pranks over the
years that eventually built up to more than just a sense of dislike. Even through all of that,
Annie and everyone else knew with absolute certainty that Sara was in good care with him.
No one would ever argue that he wasn’t a good man, and that he did not have her best
interest at heart.
Their wedding day was one to behold. While it wasn’t as spectacular as some, it was
perfect for what their love had meant. Never was it about the money, despite living
comfortably, even in old age. Never was it about one more than the other, but rather what
was best for the greater good of them both. One thing that they’ve always stressed was that
while nobody else ever believed in what they had would last, they always had. They’d
always believed that their love would stand the test of time. Little did they know, time was
ticking away.
Fast.
THE sounds of the enormous aircraft’s engines could be heard from within the
airport at a peculiar level. To say the airport was dead would be an understatement. It was
5:18 in the morning, and a young man sat alone in a chair that was less than comforting. The
look on his young face proved that he’d been here awhile, he had the looks of a Hollywood
star but came off as lonely to most people he encountered. His face looked as if it was
chiseled, much like an ancient statue that still stands in Rome today. His figure left a little to
be desired, and while he felt somewhat confident in himself, it was hard for him to adapt
to certain social situations.
Calling him awkward would be a fair representation, although he had somewhat
of an approachable way about him. People felt drawn to him, yet he didn’t know how to
keep them. Growing up without a steady father figure undoubtedly contributed to this
particular short coming. His mother cared for herself more than him, which in turn lead to
an unstable living environment. A new guy every other week it seemed, sometimes every
week. The day she passed away was the happiest of his days as of yet, knowing he was
through with both the mental and physical abuse she forced him to endure at such a young
age. She would sometimes blame him for his father’s death, telling him that he was
the reason the accident happened.
According to his mother, his father, Dean, was on his way to grab medication
for the boy and ended up in a vicious car crash that claimed his life, and the other
driver’s. She told him that it was due to his ability to attract diseases with ease that his
father now lay in a grave. Something that he still faced to this day; a very weak immune
system. When he was seven the family doctor diagnosed him with immune deficiency
disease. This came as no surprise to him and his mother alike, who often looked down on
him for this. While it was fairly obvious it was not his fault, she never displayed remorse
towards her son to her dying day when she told him the truth of his father’s demise.
The lung cancer winning the battle, she gasped at every word but eventually
made it known that Dean had taken his own life by way of pills and alcohol. When he asked
why, she merely smiled before her dying breath. The scene haunted him to this very day, as
a 22 year old author. His first novel was critically acclaimed, hailed by many as a literary
achievement not seen in years, let alone decades. His second novel fell short, causing many
to write him off completely. He was in the process of penning his third, awaiting an agent to
meet him at the airport for a meeting over breakfast once he had arrived. Perhaps he had
arrived too early, but this was a chance he couldn’t afford to take.
At that moment he placed his head in his palms and began to sulk in himself, the
only one that has ever been there. He raised his head, wiping the tears away from his cheek
and looked around the virtually empty airport. He spoke the words, “fuck this”, stood up,
and walked toward the exit, leaving his belongings behind. He ascended into the abyss of the
night, en route to an uncertain fate.
THE drive down the freeway and through suburbia was a good one. I had nothing
to complain about, traffic cooperated with me for a change and I was early to my destination.
It just felt like a special day. The clock read 6:28 AM as I sipped my coffee I had gotten from
the fine young man that waited on me at the Dunkin Donuts drive thru earlier that morning.
It was still warm despite the 40 minute drive to his home. I was parked outside, across the
street from victim number seven. I often wondered if other people with the same profession
as I kept track or numbered their finished works. My mind traveled back to the mishap with
Mrs. Schafer, and it did the job in the sense that it not only motivated me, but angered me. I
actually think calling what I’m feeling as anger wouldn’t be a fair or accurate description to
be honest. Maybe something more like rage. Where I was parked, I had the perfect angle to
see his front door, and everyone who came and left from it. My victims become part of my
daily routine once I’ve chosen them. And no mistake about it, chosen they were.
The clock hit 6:35, and as he had every morning, he stepped outside to get the paper
only to quickly shut the door, paper in hand. Marc didn’t seem to be a morning person. I
certainly hope he enjoys this one, fore it will be his last. For some reason I felt. . . invigorated
by this day, the prospect of this kill made my heart race. I hadn’t had this feeling since my
inaugural sacrifice.
It was basically on the job training. Equipped with knowledge from Dexter Morgan
and Patrick Bateman alike, coupled with some simple Google searches from a public
computer, I felt I could handle it. . . and handle it I did. Exceptionally well if I may so
myself. The reason it was my most satisfying to date was because it was a grudge kill. I knew
that I could only take out one person that could be connected to me, so I chose carefully.
Being the 34 year old male that I am, I had a vast assortment of options. The list of people
who have wronged would extend around the White House fivefold. Well, maybe that is a
bit of an exaggeration, but the fact remains. I wish it hadn’t came down to me having to end
a colleagues days, but it had to be done.
When I was 19 I submitted my first story to a local paper and received good reviews
across the board for the most part. I was getting my name out there, and that’s what I viewed
as priority number one. One guy though, Adam Rupert, really struck me the wrong way. Not
only did he discredit my work, but threw a copy of my story into the trash right in front of
me. I’m not sure exactly how he was expecting me to react, but I took it in stride. Shaking
my head and walking away was my way of standing up for myself back then. Them days are
long gone. Adam may have been the first to pay the price, but his company has grown since.
His death was easily my most violent to date, all I had was a hammer and a screw driver in
my car, and I used them accordingly. The screams empowered me, seemed to make me feel
as if I was super-human, if only for an hour or two. The high I get from my work is like
nothing I’ve ever experienced. Enough about the past. This is now. Needless to say, I’m
far more ready for this assignment than I was for that one. The door swung open. His routine
changed. I didn’t panic, I was electrified. He tossed me a curveball, but how would I
respond?
Out stepped Marc and his two daughters. I chuckled at the fact that I never cared
enough to learn their names. He told them to get into the car, book bags in hand. They did as
their father told them to. I assumed he was dropping them off at school.
