Part 6: The End of All Things
I followed the girl for days, trying to discern as much as possible from her daily routine. She was punctual, disciplined, and studious; she walked with an upright posture and seldom carried her books in a backpack, preferring, rather, to carry them in her arms. The school either did not recognize her beauty and charm, or chose to neglect her, for I seldom saw her with a large group of people. She instead chose a select group of acquaintances with which to associate. I noticed, also, that her attire was normally black or dark in color, perhaps to match the color of her hair. I began to realize that she bore a sustained appearance of morbidity and sadness, with the occasional vibrancy being marked as unusual, an oddity of joy in a sea of dismal reflection. She appeared tranquil, composed and smiled often, although there was behind the smile an inner pain that screamed through her brilliant eyes. Perhaps it was just that pain, or the beauty I noticed earlier, but I gravitated to her in the most powerful way. Notes were written, and schedules constructed so I would not miss a single moment of her routine. I began to feel a certain power emanating from her, a force which seemed to draw me away from all that I knew; she was the epicenter, and towards her I ventured, day by day, until the time that I should take her.
The girl’s nighttime schedule was of particular interest to me, for I knew I would have only a single chance, so I became well acquainted with her comings and goings in the evening; she kept regular hours, but was hardly without a person beside her. I knew this would be an issue, and so kept a vigilant watch to see when she traveled alone and when she most likely had company.
I kept one step ahead of the police in all of my actions; they were closing in, setting their trap, and I was soon to fall prey to their snare. The keys had been identified as mine, but my finagling brought me extra time. Records also showed crewmembers were in that sector of the building the day prior. No credible evidence came from the scene, so they could use little to track me. Valerie kept watch, following me and sneaking around every corner where I was thought to be. He was clever and shrewd, a man not to be fooled easily. Like a lion in the brush, he waited patiently; I was his antelope, his prey, but I was also not so easily defeated. I cross-stepped and managed to keep one pace before him at all times. Small interviews were the norm, but he never could ensnare me, much to his repugnance. In my heart, however, I knew they had targeted me, and all the pieces were closing in around my king. Soon, my walls would crumble and I would be finished. Time was slowly drifting from me; haste was now more necessary than ever.
The week before I finally acted was busy, following her at every available moment; she moved, and I shadowed her. I had enough information, enough of a common schedule sketched that I was ready to go. I needed only the right moment and locale for the deed. I also began the construction of a room for her. The area I chose was in my basement, close in proximity to the area in which I worked previously, but at the far end of the space. There was a separate room, a type of utility closet with a spacious area, which I sealed up and secured. I took every pain to be certain it was comfortable, even expending my budget in the purchasing of new curtains and bedding, plus an adequate chair for her leisure time. The window was boarded, but painted a soft color, as was the room itself. When I finally completed the task, the area was delicate and cozy, with soft lighting falling on the scene and posh extravagance making for a very relaxed atmosphere. I wanted the room to be soothing and calming, as her experience would no doubt be a frightening one.
Although hasty, I overlooked no minor detail; I created a menu for her, selecting some of my finest entrees from years past, and purchased what I thought would be edible delights and treats for her. I nearly figured her size, and so spent another sizable portion on clothing for her, buying items that matched what I saw her wearing. She was to be a prisoner, but one finely kept and dotingly pampered.
I kept up a strong visage at work, doing my chores with diligence and speed. I always watched for her, as her passing would stir my heart and soothe the inner pains that haunted my waking hours. I also fought with a vengeance the weakness that was coming upon me, the pain and agony that were being propelled into my body. I was suffering daily, more then than ever. The wound, no doubt aggravated intensely by my latest endeavors, struck hard against my frame and many times caused me to stop and slump over. I could only work for short periods without resting. It was growing worse, and the end, I reasoned, would be soon.
With a sense of urgency pressing upon me, I knew I finally had to act. All preparations were made and completed, and everything was ready for the arrival of my guest, my last who would ensure my redemption. I had notes on her behavior, and knew when and where she would appear. It was not difficult, as the school had only so many illuminated walkways at night; she always chose the same paths, and beside her usual route, I was waiting. I had it in my mind that I would make the issue as simple and uncomplicated as possible, and so I parked my vehicle as close to the scene as I could. There was a certain area, located between two academic buildings, that was dark from the inadequate spacing of the lamps. The buildings were concealed behind some trees, so prying eyes could view nothing.
I wanted the aid of a suppressant of sorts to knock her out, but could not procure one, so I had to rely upon a basic tranquilizer used in animal research. Some knowledge gained from the internet and a little eaves-dropping on a lab session gave me the necessary information I needed to use the chemical. I had the needle ready, and would inject her with it from behind. The plan seemed simple enough, but I was not so foolish or naïve to think it would unfold so easily. I had escape routes planned, and wore a hunting mask to conceal myself. I could afford no mistakes on this endeavor.
It was nearing 11 p.m., the time she would usually walk past on her route to the computer lab. I saw her coming, while hidden behind a clump of bushes. I had waited for an hour or so to be certain I did not miss her, fearing she would avert her schedule on a whim and foil my plan. Although I was intimately acquainted with her routine, I was nonetheless relieved when I saw her coming around the corner.
She was dressed comfortably, with slender pants and a short shirt, over which was a leather jacket, stylish and form fitting. She had books in her arms and walked casually, as if nothing in the world was more important than the steps she was taking. I marveled, then envied her sauntering attitude. To have such complacency in life was out of my reach. I could no longer grasp such relaxation; I was a tormented soul destined to an abrupt end.
In my hand was the needle, and in my stomach was a tempestuous storm of nerves that raged violently. I had no such feelings previously, but given the nature of the incident, and everything this single individual meant to me, I was fearful of a slip. Should I lose this one, I knew with certainty, I would be lost indefinitely. I had no room for error, and so my nerves vibrated magnificently. She was within feet of me now, and as she passed, I slowly emerged from concealment and crept up behind her. The headphones in her ears masked my footfalls, giving me an opportunity to creep ever closer.
Only she and I inhabited the area; it was vacant, much to my good fortune. The jacket posed a problem for the needle, but fortunately it was short, and could be raised easily enough to expose the soft skin beneath. I came up from behind, walking slowly to keep pace with her; she did not know I was there and continued on her path. My plan was to wrap my left arm around her, pulling her books against her body, while injecting her with my right. I wanted as little noise as possible, and with the quick action of the dose, I would have none.
She was in the process of changing a song on her player when I struck. I rushed up and threw my arm around her. She turned quickly, but the needle, aiming true to its target, slid sharply into her right side. I leaned back with her in my arms, nearly falling as she continued to squirm. A single scream escaped her mouth before I could silence her and allow the tranquilizer to take effect. She fell limply.
With all the energy I had mustered for this event, I quickly gathered her and her belongings and made haste to my car. At first I was to place her in the trunk, but rethought my decision when I reasoned through the shocking and unnerving experience she would have if she awoke. Instead, I placed her in the backseat.
When we arrived, I brought her into the house as quickly as possible and descended the stairs with her in my arms. The scene, if one were to view it, would seem more like a father bringing his little girl in from a long day of fun, rather than a jailer entombing a prisoner. I hastened, fearing the effects of the tranquillizer would soon fade. A few terrific moments, and she was laid on her bed, the very specimen of tenderness and grace. Her locks fell over the pillow softly, and in the dim lighting I beheld her beauty, her charming face that radiated even in sleep. She was to me an angel, a seraph who had alighted only for the pricking of my heart.
I removed her shoes, covered her with a blanket, and stepped back to look over her once more before I departed. A snack was prepared for her, and a pitcher of water left beside her bed. I retreated slowly and cautiously, gently closing the door behind me. I had so many thoughts soaring through my cavernous mind; I felt engaged with such intensity to the plan before me, yet trembled at the prospect of no success. With that thought lurking in my mind, I raced to the upper level and sat at the table to compose my thoughts. I had so much to say to her, so much she needed to know before it was finished, and I wanted to miss none of the details. I started to write out my ideas in short sentences, then burst forth in creativity, writing merely phrases and words, all of them conveying some part of the story. I scribbled actively and quickly, lost in my thoughts when through the window, I saw a squad car slowly drive past. I had no lights on save for a small illuminated lamp, and quickly rushed to a dark corner by the window and watched as they went. They moved slowly, idly even, as if looking at each home critically. I peered for what seemed to be long, intense minutes as the vehicle slithered like a serpent down the drive.
How nervous, how excited beyond imagination I had become at the sighting of that car. My mind, already consumed with so many thoughts, now rattled wildly, madly even, with so many prospects. Were they aware of my exploit? Were they casing my residence? Was the end coming faster than I had anticipated? I could not answer these questions.
I trembled, but with the passing of the car, I felt the urge to return and quickly finish my list. I wrote even faster than before, the ideas flowing so freely over the rocky crevices of my mind. The paper took form and soon I had what seemed to be a suitable outline of ideas, my very story laid out before me. I took it closer to the lamp to examine it; my whole ordeal, everything I had endured and inflicted, was roughly sketched in so simple a form, as if the chain of events unfolded in a casual, short span of time. How elementary the whole affair seemed. The letters only gave a cursory look at all that happened, but conveyed more meaning with their ideas and sentiments. My story was my own, my exploration into the world of eternity and a failure as an experiment. I have no tangible results, as most scientists’ desire, but only a trail of bodies to chart the course of my experimentation.
I looked sullenly at the paper, at the foreign markings called writing, and thought of the nature of all things, and then of nothing at all. Everything that now comprised my life was laid before me in a subtle hand. Illustrious curves and sways did not compose the narrative, but a shaky hand, nervous with fear and agitated by a trembling fit nestled deep in my mind; eloquence would lack, but my story, the only piece of me to ever see the infinite side of existence, would live. How I desired life; how ironic that now the one thing I so craved would be bestowed upon my only creation.
Taking the paper, I read it two, then three times before securing it in a drawer. The story was as I had desired it to be: no happy ending, no heroic moments, only the sad life and demise of a figure best forgotten. I approached the door to the basement slowly, determined to enter, when I stopped short. I knew not what compelled so short a stop in me, but I dared not touch the knob at the moment. Perhaps I feared waking the girl. It was a reasonable excuse and seemed to suit my nature. I knew, rather, that the small voice within me spoke softly the words only my heart would comprehend. I had read my tale and was ashamed. My shame bore upon me, and I could not face the girl, who alone would be a mirror to my indignity, showing me what manner of monster I had become.
I turned away, moving rather to my bedroom and as far as my spatial limitations would allow. I could not face her, not with the moments and hours of my trial weighing upon me like a leaden mass. Such weights were not meant to be borne upon one set of shoulders alone, and it sickened me to think my load would soon become hers. I could not help the matter, but only cry. Tears, it seems, always fall when the spirit is weakest, and so, in the dark of the night, with little aid from my memory or my heart and surrounded by agonies I alone created, I cried.
The next day, as I expected, the cops were clawing about the campus. I arrived early, and as I was driving to the facilities plant, I noticed a small slip of paper on my windshield. When I pulled into my spot, I removed it and found it to be a parking ticket from the campus police. Grumbling, I threw the parking citation into the car and moved into the building. The day passed quickly, even quicker than most, and I spent a great deal of time trying to elude the officers. Valerie, of course, spotted me and attempted another of his suave interrogations. I had managed to give him and his associates the slip when he caught me leaving a building.
“Good day, Cacciare,” he said.
“Oh, good lord,” I replied. “What now?”
“Another student is missing. Did you know that?”
“I heard from some workers,” I said laconically.
“It seems the killer has struck again; another girl. He must have a fancy for the ladies.”
“I suppose.”
“You probably have some favorite students on campus, right, Cacciare?” I stared, half bewildered, at the man. I felt like a sheet of glass; he was peering deep into my mind and I could feel the piercing rays of his intellect slicing away at the barriers which housed the secret. Did he know? Did he figure out my latest act? I stammered out something unintelligible then politely, and hastily, dismissed myself. I heard him say something about catching up with me again. I did not reply.
I hid in the first vacant classroom I found and peered through a window. I saw Valerie walk back in the direction he had come from and disappear behind some trees. I writhed with anger and intense fear, unable to shake the foreboding feeling that Valerie was soon in closing his pinchers. I could hide from the police activity on campus, making myself scarce from all of the prying eyes of the authorities. I could not, however, shake Valerie from my limbs. He was a leech that would not yield, a dog that would not let go. Sweat droplets were rolling down my brow when I heard a voice behind me.
I turned sharply, but found only an empty room. A whisper, soft like the wind, came rolling across my ears. It spoke lightly, but I distinctly knew it: it was the Voice!
Turning every which way, as if it would appear from the silent surroundings, I tried to visualize the sound. It spoke again, my name wafting across the air to me.
“What?” I demanded.
“So, you have made little progress?”
“Damn you. Have you been following me all this time?”
“Don’t appear so delighted to hear me again. I see he is on to you, that Valerie. Can’t find a way to rid yourself of him?”
“Leave me alone. Your plan has cost me, all of us, enough!”
“Season your comments with some hospitality. I am here to help you, even though I sense little appreciation.”
“What help can you offer?” I demanded.
“Help? Oh, I can assist you greatly. Valerie is your issue, your problem. Rid him of the burden of the case, and you rid yourself of the problem of him.”
“What?” I asked, the a
nger in my Voice still present.
“Kill him.”
“No! I will not do it.”
“You bastard fool! Kill him and you will be free of the detective who will kill you. Can you not see it?”
“No, I will not do it.”
“He will destroy you if he lives….”
“Let him live and destroy me. I have done enough, have acted my part wrongly. I know he will take me soon. It is only a matter of time, but I will not take his life, even if it means my freedom. I have new plans, more important issues to attend to now.”
Then the Voice, as if smiling devilishly, spoke in reply, “Oh, that is right. You have a new friend now. I shall have to make her acquaintance.” How I shivered when those words fell upon my ears; my lungs lost their breath and my head swelled. I was livid and enraged, the intensity of which no meter could ever register. In one sentence that voice had struck such a deep chord. I clenched my fists so tightly blood droplets eased from the depressions formed by my nails.
“Leave her alone!” I shouted. “Damn you, leave her alone! Do not go near her…” And I realized then that I was shouting in an empty room. Silence quickly regained the area and reestablished its reign. I hastily left before anyone could place a face with the voice.
The remainder of that afternoon I fretted nervously, fearing the Voice would interfere with both my plan and the girl. With paternal rage did I shout in my mind, my anger checked only by the anxious feelings inside me. How I worried over the girl and the agenda all the long day. She was my last hope, and I could not stand the agony of knowing, of laying to rest knowing that the Voice was interfering with one so special, so pure.
When I finally arrived at home and was secluded from all the blaring lights, interrogations and business of the day, I was able to reflect and contemplate. I sat upon a chair and began to lose myself in a reverie. I was nearly gone when a loud knock awakened my senses to the surrounding world. I thought someone was at my front door, but the muffled noise told me otherwise. I listened and heard it again, then once more. It was not a knocking, but a pounding, and it was emanating from downstairs.
I slowly made my way to the basement door and listened. Down below, there was a soft banging, liken to someone throwing a shoe against a hollow wall. I listened intently, then opened the door. It was a degree louder now, but still the same thudding noise. I descended, and the noise grew in intensity. As I came to the floor, I realized the door to the girl’s room was shaking rhythmically; she was beating against it.
I crept to the door and listened. I could hear her groan with each contact; she was attempting to escape. I watched for another moment as the door continued to rattle. Finally, I had enough of the affair and decided to end it. I took my fist, and when she moved back to prepare for another hit, I struck the door and shouted simply “Hello!”
There was silence from within; she heard me and was still. I had the key securely around my neck and slowly removed it. I knew it was time to enter, but still I hesitated; my plan was formed, but I could in no way tell how the girl would react to my story and her captivity.
I unlocked the door and gently pushed it open. I was prepared for an attempted escape, but found nothing forthcoming. The dim light in the basement flooded her room and battled the rays from her lamp. I stepped in, searching for the girl, who I found nestled in a corner, huddled as if attempting to seep into the crease between the adjoining walls. Her eyes were locked in terror on me. I did not move any further. It was the first time I had dared to enter the room since her incarceration, as I used a small slot at the base of the door for the delivery of her meals. The room changed little, save for the disheveled appearance she gave it in the fury I just heard.
There was in her frame a slight tremor or nervous agitation which caused her to shake like a cold kitten. I felt compelled, even desirous, of embracing her, but knew that was a purpose for neither of us. I was ill, having grown much worse the past several days, and she was still a captive, if even for a short time. Her liberation was near, but not without embracing my story first. I was growing daily in pain, and at the moment when I entered, the pain was more prevalent than before. I tried to conceal my aching body behind a strong, yet comforting visage.
There was an awkward silence resting between us; she did not speak, and no words came to my mind to say. I stared at her, our eyes tied tightly together in a twisted knot. Moments, like those which always precede a most important announcement, hung heavily and passed with little swiftness. Finally, I spoke:
“You are faring well?” I asked slowly and deliberately. She did not reply, as if she did not understand the words I spoke. There was no acknowledgement of receipt, or confirmation in the negative or positive. She merely subjected me to a more intense silence.
“I see you have been eating.” The empty snack and breakfast plates were piled on the floor in a corner. Still she spoke not, but maintained an almost icy demeanor. There was, however, a storm brewing behind her eyes, a storm that heralded an eruption of proportions so magnificent, it seemed to take all of her energies, all of her fear and hatred, to retain. I could see the clouds pressing upon her brow, and the slight transformation from fear and angst to deliberate and targeted anger. It was from this strength, this inner energy that always seemed animated within her, that I had taken a liking to her.
“I know this is, well, different…” I stammered in a clumsy fashion. I knew I first had to explain her situation before divulging the truth to her, and so began my poor attempt with a very cumbersome explanation. “I brought you here as a captive of sorts,” she shuddered briefly, only momentarily exhibiting weakness.
“Who are you?” she blurted out. Though her demeanor was hardening, her voice still conveyed a terror that made her vocals shake. I had bypassed my appellation, not from means of secrecy, but out of sheer forgetfulness. I had so many thoughts pressing on me at once that the least of them, my name, slipped from my mind.
“I suppose I should start there. My name is Richard Cacciare. I work at your school.” On the air hung my first confession, and in my heart the intensity of the secret began to alleviate. “I am a man of no great reputation; in fact, I clean the very classrooms where you study. And of the deaths of late, I am their creator.” I could see fear welling in her eyes. The strength that reverberated in her frame dissipated quickly.
“As I said, I brought you here, but do not worry for your life; I mean not to harm you. Please, don’t be afraid. No harm will come to you…”
“Then what do you want me for?” she shouted, tears welling in her eyes. I was taken aback, but had prepared myself for such an inquiry.
“I am getting to that,” I replied softly. “I brought you here, and have provided, I should think, rather nicely for your comfort, knowing that your sojourn would not be lengthy. I am getting older, as the stern visage and trembling hands of mine will reveal. I am also, however, not as old as I appear. My life, by the misfortune of an acquired disease hereditary in nature, has been cut severely short. Doctors could not avail me of my pains, and death, with its ancient sickle, came creeping and calling.” I stopped, allowing the weight of the moment to pass me.
“I gained, over time, and with some assistance, an opinion that I thought would assist me in regaining the life I was about to lose. It was my understanding, after much meditation and research, that life is just the material, just the singular expression of animation and it held no sacred or binding powers over the imagination. In other words, life is not sacred; all creation feeds upon their lesser, with humanity scoring the greatest victory which enables us to eat everything, both literally and figuratively. In order for humanity to survive, to live, something else must die. Look at the food upon that plate. What is it? Were those things always dead? Were they never alive? We kill everyday in our eating, our driving, our living; our homes destroy land, our buildings take living space and devour it. Our appetites always hun
ger for more, and soon the world has upon it our fingerprints, dipped in blood and wrapped around its jugular. All creation, in the greater scale, needs to kill to live. Life, then, comes out of death, out of eating and being, out of hunting and gathering. There can be no sacredness to life when everything, from the simple mosquito, to the complex whale, is nothing but food and energy for something else.”
I paused to give my mind a rest. I had expostulated so much, fearing only that my ideas would fall on deaf ears. Over the course of my dissertation, I watched the change in her face; I could read no thoughts, but if the appearance of her eyes and the lessening and tightening of her facial muscles were any indication, then I knew she had at least heard me. For a brief moment we were silent. I was preparing to divulge my story in all its details, when she spoke.
“But life is sacred,” she began cautiously. Like a child taking its first steps, or a bird first learning the function of its wings, she progressed slowly. I had expected no debate, and was moved by her rebuttal. Some spirit of animation sparked within her, and I could see clearly she meant to discuss the issue.
“Life is not merely for killing and living,” she started, “it is unique, special, even, even sacred!” Her words were carefully placed, as if she did not know how I would react. I listened attentively, but silently, neither nodding nor moving. “Life is what gives animation to all, and everything fits into cyclical patterns that, in their greatest sphere, are life. The wolf may eat a bird, but the bird ate a worm first, and the worm some form of bacteria. They feed off one another, but it is how the system works, and how it has occurred from the beginning. That fact does not lessen life or decrease its value any.”
“But if we are only food, how sacred can we be?” I interrupted. “A flabby, grill-shrunken piece of pork cannot hold any special or unique place, since it is only food now. It might be special for the creature eating it, but the system, depressing and morbid, only fits the purpose of sheer survival, and that at its brutish reality. Survival. Everything seeks survival and survival only. Life, then, is about destroying life in others so the life in us may survive. That goes for all creation. Everything seeks to rob from another for the sustenance of the self. We drill oil for our cars, and spill it in our pristine oceans. We need no cars for survival, yet we continually pour the black substance into our environment, poisoning it uncontrollably.”
“Unfortunate, yes, but not a determining factor of the sacredness of life. The system of life itself is so spectacular that it defies logic and reason. It captivates the imagination and teaches that death, that eternal enemy of humanity, is still conquered by life. One perishes, and another lives. Life and death is creation, the order of all things. It is a system unlike any other.”
“It may be a system unlike any other,” I began, growing intoxicated by the thrill of the debate, “but the system I developed was far greater.” Here I paused; in my excitement I had glorified my means to an end. She moved slightly; there was an inquisitive look on her face, and I knew what was coming next.
“What system?” She had asked it, and now I had to surmount my fear and answer her. I hesitated, my hands trembling slightly. I had little difficulty spouting my ideas about life and death, but now, when that theory was put into practice, and proved to be fatal, I could not muster the courage to answer her directly. I looked down, then slowly moved to a seat near the bed. We were across the room from one another now.
“I killed so I could live.” I said dryly. There was a look of surprise stealing across her face as I spoke. Another weight came off my mind and heart as the words took a new bearer. I awaited the reply, which did not come. I watched her closely. It was now time to begin. The girl may not have been ready, but I had little choice. Time was running out, and I could not risk her escaping with the knowledge she now contained without knowing the story in its entirety.
“Life is nothing but death in the waiting, my dear,” I said. “With that notion on my mind, I took it upon myself to see if I could gain the life that was leaving me by drinking the life of others.” I paused.
“What?” she asked, completely confused. I allowed my head to sink again. With my eyes staring at the floor, I continued.
“With each student, I would…” and a noise interrupted me. It was a very common sound, that of a car door closing. All the houses in my neighborhood were in close proximity to one another, so such sounds were not uncommon. The noise, however, came from my driveway.
I stood quickly and inquisitively, looking through her open door, then down at the girl. I instructed her to be patient while I explored the sound. Closing the door behind me for safe-keeping, I crept to a bookshelf and slowly pulled it out, revealing a window in the basement that looked out onto the grassy yard. I could see two cars in my drive, one of which was a cruiser. Uniformed men, about four of them, plus a suited man, were approaching the door. The suited man I recognized: it was Valerie.
I quietly and cautiously made my way up stairs and hid behind the corner closest to the door. There was in the end table a revolver I kept for safety, and I knew no better means of usage than now. I put it in my pocket and listened as a heavy hand knocked on the door. I shook with every beat, but steadied myself. The house was dark and I was concealed within the limits of the shadows; though one face peered through the window, I was not visible.
I ran several scenarios through my mind, some of which included escaping out the back or staying to defend myself. I reasoned first that the house was probably surrounded, so escape was impossible. I then thought defending myself was a more viable option, and I could use the girl as a leverage for my release. I wanted no harm to come to her, but needed her assistance in more than one way now. The thought sickened me, but I could make a hostage out of her, use her to negotiate, if it came to that. I went further and reasoned that I could simply play it cool and allow the officers to subject me to an array of questions; perhaps the case was not strong enough yet, and I could purchase precious time. This latter idea seemed the best to me, and so, when the knocking persisted, I crept to the door.
I could hear their voices as they softly spoke to one another; the language was indiscernible, but no doubt it concerned me and a possible maneuver to get me out. I put my hand on the knob, but hesitated; there was such an anxious and nervous feeling within me that I could scarcely control myself. An overhanging sense of doom, nestled above my mind, slowly descended upon me as I stood before my door, for what I could not help but feel was the last time. I inhaled, and quickly turned the knob.
The light, bold and illustrious in appearance, came rushing in as I pulled the door ajar only slightly. Several faces, with hands upon their guns, were staring at me. My eyes adjusted, and when they did, I could see the clear outline of Valerie’s stern visage and many others behind him. They appeared, bathed in light and having about them a sense of judicial authority that harkened back to the founding of the law, like stoic soldiers guarding the gates of the city.
I stared blindly at them, wondering if my face showed any signs of incrimination. I tried to maintain a level of equanimity, although all the forces within were warring for dominance over my mind.
“Mr. Richard Cacciare,” Valerie spoke, bringing to an end the suspenseful silence, “we have a warrant for your arrest on the grounds of murder.” I heard the words, heard them as clearly as anyone hears any sound which reverberates in the eardrum, yet they resounded with a hallow falseness, like sounds one knows to be fabricated in so clever a manner, so as not to be natural.
“Excuse me?” I asked. I could not think quickly enough to utter a better pointed question.
“Your car, Mr. Cacciare, was in the vicinity of where we believe the girl disappeared. You have the right to remain…” but I did not let him finish.
“What!” I shouted. “No, you’re wrong! You will not have her.” I hastened to shut the door, but an officer, quicker than I, rushed to prop it open. I was enrag
ed and on the defensive, seeing uniforms of aggression entering my abode, my den. I stepped back and exposed my gun to the world. I heard them shout, and then a shot fired. And another.
The confusion that settled in shook the house. At my feet, just outside the door, was an officer; the doorway was still open. I lunged as those outside did the same, and pushed the door closed, shouting all the while, like a man mad with fright, how I would kill them if they entered. By some supernatural strength I was able to press them all back and secure the door. I latched every lock on its frame and I hastily threw a table before it. I stumbled backward and landed against a wall. Adrenaline was surging through me; I felt a new sense of awareness and energy, much more than when the first sips of blood touched my lips so many months ago.
I knew I did not have much time now, and so stood quickly and raced for the basement. I only managed a few steps when I collapsed into some furniture; I did not feel well. I arose, and took a few more paces, only to fall once again. I felt a pain in my chest, like a strain, only worse, and thought little of it until it increased and caused me to take notice. My shirt, as my eyes fell upon it, was soaked in a red substance. Blood poured freely from a wound just right of the center of my chest.
A fear more intense than any I had experienced overcame me so greatly that I could scarcely comprehend the situation. My hand, as I pulled it away, was covered in blood, the source of my experiment, that very fuel I sought to lengthen my days. I leapt to my feet in a dizzying state and tried to stabilize myself. I smeared my life against the table and the white walls, and everything else I touched as I steadied myself. The world spun in violent shades of red; long, crimson lashes swirled around my swooning head. I was intoxicated with fear and rage, mixed with equal measures of shock and fright. Blood seemed to seep from the very walls that surrounded me.
A faint feeling, intensifying as every moment slipped away, crept upon me with so great a stealth that I hardly anticipated it when it struck. I nearly collapsed, but with red hands, managed to catch myself against the kitchen table; their dirtiness frightened me again and I let out a scream. I had no sooner sealed my lungs when in the distance I heard the gentle reverberating of sirens. I had momentarily forgotten the situation outdoors, but the screeching of tires in my vicinity and the blaring sirens reawakened my senses to my predicament. From my vantage point I could see cars gathering, and around them the scurrying bodies of officers as they took up their positions. The end had finally come.
I staggered like one drunk on wine, trying to reach the basement. I gained the door when a voice over some loudspeaker shouted something I could not audibly hear. I shook off the message and went down. I was surrounded and trapped, my only leverage the girl I had in my keeping. I tried to purchase time, but now I had run out and was left with only the final chapter of my plan, the single moment I had prepared so long for. In pain I descended, my mind reeling and my heart racing, pumping all of my blood out of my veins. No table was necessary, no devices required; I was being drained involuntarily, but naturally.
To my surprise, the girl had shifted little since I left her. She had been alerted to the sounds and the commotion outside, and seemed greatly affected by it. My appearance brought about a shock upon her face, as my shirt, crimson with my own life, stood in stark contrast with the concealed life which pulsated through her. She was my only hope for eternity, my only salvation; in her my story would survive, would live. Slumping against the door jam, I slipped and slid down to the ground.
Epilogue: The Blessed Speaks
I do not expect you to believe me; I only expect you to listen. This is not my story, not my invention. I crafted no such tale for amusement. This is the story as I heard it, as it fell from the lips of the dying Mr. Richard Cacciare. Yes, I am she who so captured his imagination and nearly stole his heart. I am _____, his momentary prisoner and now biographer. This is his story, not mine; however, to a degree, it belongs to all of humanity, to all of us.
When he entered the room, his shirt was the reddest of colors, and he looked haggard and fatigued. He had changed drastically from the man I saw only some moments ago. After the fall, he began to crawl across the floor towards me. I saw he had in his hand a gun, but he carelessly threw it to the side; there was but one death which concerned him now. As he came to me, some impulse within me convulsed, and I went to him, kneeling beside him. I felt a pang of compassion, even sympathy for the man lying beside me. It was at this moment that he began to speak the immortal words he hoped would forever grant him immortality and clear his conscience. He neglected none of the gory details, but shared them all, sometimes crying, sometimes swelling with anger and self-pity. I listened intently to all he said, not knowing if I should interrupt or remain silent.
I had many notions about life and death prior to my experience with Richard, but something about his manner, about his story and his experience, changed me. We debated earlier about his theories when he was still invigorated and could muster the energy to battle against the world. Now he was perishing quickly and had before him the overwhelming uncertainty of the dark future. Richard felt no need to debate any longer; he simply wanted someone to listen and hear why he did the heinous acts that so filled the short-term memories of the campus and city. I listened, realizing that life and death are seemingly interchangeable. All creation exists at the expense of something else. Richard was right: we kill so we can live.
With great haste he concluded his story. Through the open doorway I could see in the window Richard had cleared more cars gathering and officers moving about. It would not be long before they made a move against him; he was secure, however, and more peaceful since he related his story to me. With only one momentary upset, when he shouted aloud for the ‘damned voice’ to be silent and leave me alone, he was calm. I can only assume the voice was the one of the story, some Voice beckoning from deep within his disturbed mind. Strangely enough, I believe that somewhere in me, I heard it, too.
Time passed and Richard fell silent, his eyes staring at the ceiling. I covered him with one of his own blankets and placed the pillow beneath his head. Blood covered the floor of my basement dwelling, forming a circle around him. Some stained my pants, but I cared nothing for it at the moment; I was lost in his story, lost in the idea that humanity, a people and time I so willingly and passionately embraced, would force such a man as Richard to so extreme an act. I wanted to believe in the goodness of humankind, in the progress and development of both society and the human mind. I embraced the belief, and still do to some extent, though I realize that such advancements never truly bring us beyond the life and death scenario, the one Richard tried to trap and force to his will.
Richard was still silently laying on the ground, his breathing becoming worse as every minute left his body. I heard a clamorous noise from above, then the pounding of feet upon the floor. I knew the police had broken in, and now were scurrying about the house. The sound seemed to draw Richard back to the house and to me. He looked at me with open and alert eyes.
“I’m sorry for what I have done to you, and especially for what I did to the others. Please forgive me. I will meet them soon and ask them the same.” His words were dry in tone, but alive in meaning and sentiment.
A tear, so clear and so crystalline in brilliance, formed in my eye.
Footsteps were racing down the stairs, with voices shouting and yelling my name. I did not answer; I was in the presence of death, and solemnity was observed. They reached me and rushed into the tiny quarters.
When they beheld me, I was crying. In my arms was the body of Richard Cacciare.
*****
https://robertperry2012.wordpress.com/
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robert-Perry-Robert-Oliver/257918337602835
https://twitter.com/ - !/RobertOliver9
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends sharethis-inline-share-buttons">