“Ah…finally, quitting time” A young man muttered to himself at the counter of a small Ice Cream shop, finishing up his cleaning routine. He looked outside and saw the sun shining, glistening off the dark blue lake, which was the background for a black paved road where a few cars went by. The road had a sidewalk just next to it, which was lined with trees about every thirty feet. As the man, who looked like he was in his late teens, turned off the lights, he heard his boss say, “Hey, Joe, I’m going to cut out now, gotta get home quick…the Mrs. Has been getting mad at me lately. You okay to lock up?” Joe replied, “Yeah, sure…I’ll be out real quick” His boss said “All right, then…have a good evening.” After his boss had left, Joe finished wiping the counter, put the money away, and went in the back to make sure everything was good. As he walked in back, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He removed his cap that he was forced to wear while he worked, and let his long brown hair down. It fell down to his shoulders, surprisingly pert and tidy, it was almost seemingly flowing as if blown by some feign wind. He gazed into the long mirror and saw a tall, pale, young man. He stood 6’1”, or so, and lanky; wearing old, worn, brown jeans, and a blue, plaid, button up shirt; the street clothes were covered with a green apron. His long face and pointy chin was covered with a light stubble, giving him an uncanny bum-like stature, which was only accented more by his somber brown eyes, accompanied by dark circles hanging below them. He decided all was well back there, and walked back into the front of the little shop, took off the apron, locked the door, and proceeded into the street.

It was a beautiful day in Salt Lake City, not a cloud in the sky. When he noticed this, Joe perked up a bit, and started to walk back home. On the way to his house, he passed a rough looking group of teens. He knew this group well, and passed them daily. Joe just proceeded nonchalantly past them, disregarding their insults as he passed. A few curses, some gay slurs…just the usual, and then they left him alone. As he neared his house, he saw one of his neighbors, and lowered his head in hopes that he wouldn’t be seen. Although, it didn’t work, and his neighbor called out, “Hey you little freak, where are you going? I still wouldn’t show my face around here during the day if I were you!” And spat at Joe as he picked up the pace and entered his house hurriedly. His mother, utterly obese and wearing what looked like a white maternity dress with a pink flower pattern on it, greeted him nicely, and offered him some food. “No thanks, mom.” Joe replied and walked up the stairs to his room without even looking up at her. He got upstairs, walked slowly over to his stereo, and turned on his favourite station. Punk music poured from the radio, and enveloped Joe, setting him into his own world away from reality. He walked over and locked his door, then turned up his radio. His room was cluttered with piles of clothes atop the beige carpet, and magazines on his blue bedspread. There was an old electric guitar and amp in one corner, and some candles on a small dresser with only one drawer and a shelf in the opposite. The candles were surrounding a picture of a beautiful girl with light, flawless skin, and black, long, hair that seemed to flow in perfect harmony with her dark brown eyes. She was smiling beautifully, her crimson lips revealing small, white teeth. He went over to his desk, and studied his face in the mirror. The semi ovular mirror was cracked in a spider web formation in three places; the upper right hand corner, the middle, and the lower right hand corner. He looked down at his feet with a feeling of pure disgust of himself, and threw himself on his bed, reaching over to his radio remote control and turning up the radio as loud as it would go. Punk music surrounded him, and floated down the street, escaping through every opening his room allowed. He twisted, and writhed on his bed, throwing magazines all over the floor, and tangling his bed spread. Suddenly images started to pour through his head. He saw the girl in the picture laughing and smiling, then he saw the scenario in third person. He watched himself trip and fall on a dresser with a small handgun atop of it. As he hit the dresser, the gun fell off, and slammed hard on the floor. Joe screamed, “Fay!!” just before he heard the gun fire. Suddenly he saw a small purple hole in the girl’s chest, and watched as blood started to pour out of it. He watched himself run over and put both his hands on the wound and tell the girl she’d be all right as dark purple liquid found its way slowly through his fingers. Blood was running over his hands, down the side of her sweater, and onto the carpet where it spread, and formed a little purplish-red puddle. He ran over to a phone on the wall, and dialed 911, yelling for help. “Oh my god…oh my god…we need an ambulance…she’s been shot, she’s been SHOT! HEEELLLLP!!!” The girl called out to him with what little strength she could muster, “ahhh…Joe…”, and he went over to comfort her. Then, as though someone had pushed fast forward on his hallucination, he saw himself with his head buried in her neck, letting out muffled sobs and screaming her name repeatedly. The floor around them was sodden with the warm, dark, purplish-red liquid. Suddenly, two men ran into the room. They were draped in white, and seemed like angels to Joe right then. One of them ran over to the girl on the floor with an orange toolbox. He pressed his fingers into the side of her neck, and put his ear by her mouth and nose. He shook his head at the other, went over to Joe, and said something. Even though he was close enough to Joe when he said it so that Joe could feel his hot breath, to Joe it seemed like he was thousands of miles away, and only saw his lips move. The punk music started to override Joe’s hallucination, and he saw the girl lying in her own pool of blood. He saw this as though he were suspended above her on the ceiling, looking down, and watching as the blood slowly leaked out of the dark spot on her chest, and turned her sweater from white to red. He saw the men in white call something on their hand held radios…now they seemed like devils. Devils sent from the darkest pits of hell sent only to take his sister’s life and take her soul. Sent only to take their souls together…for now that he saw his sister a strewn in her own reddened pool, he felt his heart and soul being ripped from his body. The punk music grew even louder as his vision faded away to a white mist, and then darkened from the center outward.

He awoke, and glanced at the clock on his radio, it read 5:54 AM. He had fallen asleep after he saw the horrible vision, and someone had gotten through his lock, and turned off the radio. He peered outside, seeing the slightly lit sky. The new day was being born, but the night was still fighting, and held half the sky to its darkness. He quietly walked down the stairs, and outside onto his steps. He thought of what he had seen the night before, and felt the tears involuntarily roll down his cheeks as he hid his face in his hands. “I…I…this is real…I really killed her. No I didn’t, it wasn’t my fault. Yes, it was…I shouldn’t have left that gun on top of the dresser. It’s not my fault that I fell into it. Yes…it’s my fault. I killed her…I killed Fay…the only daughter my parents had, and the only sister I ever had. Oh god…I can’t believe it…it was supposed to get easier as time passed. They told me that if I just gave it a couple months, I’d be fine. Well fuck you…you hear me? FUCK YOU! You were all fucking wrong, you stupid sons o’ bitches…it’s been a year and twelve days since I killed her, and it only hurts worse. Those freaks keep bringing it up…don’t they know what it does to me? This is killing me…” Joe glimpsed at his watch and noticed it was getting close to 6:00. He got up, went inside, and threw his shirt on a chair in the kitchen. He went back up to his room, and solemnly stooped down to look at himself in the mirror. All of his muscles were incredibly defined, but were small. Around his neck hung a small silver cross on a silver chain, and an upside down, metal, arrowhead from a string. He grasped them both in his right hand, resting his other on the desk, and turned away. He went over to his closet, opened the dark, folding door, and put on a darker blue plaid button up shirt. He ran his hands through his long, brown hair, and walked back downstairs and outside, his shirt still hanging open, revealing his abdominal muscles. He walked down the street, watching the sky turn from dark blue, to yellow, then orange, then red, then orange again. The sky turned to a light blue, as the sun peaked up over the silhouettes of the great Rocky Mountains. Now that the day was breaking, he knew that it was about time that he get back to his house, before anyone saw him walking around. He briskly walked back towards his house, noticing a few people here and there. Nobody really recognized him, except one person he knew very well. It was man in his early 20’s, huge, and solidly built. He seemed like he must weigh two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, standing fairly tall, but a bit shorter than Joe. He had short, blonde hair and vibrant blue eyes. His eyes were amazing, they almost seemed to glow, and those beautiful aqua blue irises, Joe swore, actually flowed within themselves. He was wearing an undershirt, and blue jeans to show off his incredibly large muscles. Joe new this man well, only because he was Fay’s boyfriend, hence the two didn’t really get along all too well. “Hey, fag…why are you out so early? Don’t you gotta work at that queer little store today? Thought they didn’t open ‘til twelve or so.” “Hi, Matt” Joe replied tiredly. “Are you being a smartass with me, queer? How about if I kick you ass right now ya damn flamer!” Matt started towards Joe, and Joe stopped dead where he was, almost petrified with fright, even though this wasn’t an out of the ordinary scenario for him. Matt walked swiftly over to Joe, and punched him hard in the stomach. “There ya go, fag! How ya like that, huh?” He smashed a fist into Joe’s ribs, and Joe fell to the ground with a little yelp of pain. “How about if I kill you, just like you killed Fay? Huh? How ‘bout that? You’re lucky I don’t tear your goddamn head off right now you little bastard.” And proceeded to kick Joe in the side. Joe coughed a few times as Matt walked away from him, and spat up some blood. He wiped off his mouth, and crawled over to a nearby building. He sat there, and let the tears roll down his cheeks silently for a little bit, while images of his sister lying dead flashed through his mind. His eyes were glazed over, and his heart was racing. He could feel the heat in his face as he turned brick red, and was enveloped in a multitude of emotions. Rage and despair lay upon him like a torturous sheet, he felt remorse and denial battling within his mind, then just passed out. He awoke just a few minutes after and got to his feet, hurrying home.

He walked in, and glanced over at a clock in the living room. It was closing in on 8:00 AM now, and he had to go to work in just two hours. He went up to his room and fell on his bed, falling fast asleep. His alarm woke him up at 10:00 AM, and he went back downstairs, proceeding into the street, and towards the little ice cream shop. Right when he stepped outside, his neighbor called, “Hey, bitch! How are you today? It was just over a year ago that you killed your sister, wasn’t it? You going to celebrate by killing your mother today?” Joe just quickened his pace, and proceeded past the man. He walked down the street, and noticed all the regular ambience; people pointed at him, and whispered to one another, people gave him the finger, people made little fake guns with their hands, and pretended to shoot him. An old man, who he usually saw walking in the morning around this time stared at him until he got close enough to whisper “Who you gonna kill today, queer?” As he came up on the rough looking group of teenagers, he noticed them all staring directly at him. He lowered his eyes and hastened his step, hoping for their ignorance of him. Once again, though, they started throwing their insults towards him.

Today was different than usual though, for after a few of them yelled at him, they suddenly grew silent, and he was aware of their ominous stares. He looked up at them, and saw them all start sprinting towards him. He attempted to run, but got no more than three steps before he was tackled. Two of them lifted him to his feet by his arms, and the other five circled him. They looked around to see if any police were in the area, then the one who was obviously the leader of the group approached Joe. “Hello, Joseph.” He said calmly. He was just a few inches shorter than Joe, and had short, neatly spiked, black hair. His eyes were bright green, and agreed perfectly with his slightly tanned face. His square chin had a small go-tee, and his face was otherwise completely clean cut. He reached in his pocket and pulled out what seemed like four little golden rings on his fingers. “Joseph…it’s been awhile since we got to talk, hasn’t it?” “Hey, Quincy” Joe replied. “Good…you remember my name then. They say you’re a murderer, because you killed your sister a little over a year ago. But I know you’re not. I know it was just an accident, and now you take all the credit for it, trying to make yourself seem big to everyone. Well, I know just how much of a pussy you are, Joseph. And right now, I’m going to prove that you are no real killer.” He punched Joe in the chest, and Joe suddenly realized that what he had on his fingers was a nasty little set of brass knuckles. Joe let out a little whine of pain, “Heh…we’ll see how long you go without screaming.” He punched Joe three times in the stomach with all his strength, and Joe let his tears break loose as he spat blood on the sidewalk. “Some more, my friend?” He punched Joe again, in the chest, and twice more in the ribs. To Joe, it felt like someone had just reached into his skin, and torn at his organs. When Quincy hit him in the ribs, he felt them both buckle under the power, and heard the loud “SNAP!” of them fracturing. “AAAHHHH!! STOP…GOD DAMN…JUST STOP…PLEASE!!!” Joe screamed. “All right, we’ll stop. For now…have a good day, Joseph.” And Quincy proceeded to knee him in the genitals. “AAACK!” Joseph yelled, and fell to the ground in the fetal position. The gang walked off laughing to themselves, leaving Joe on the sidewalk. Joe started getting the hallucinations again of his sister. This time, it was worse than before, for this time, it wasn’t only fact, but some delusional quality had seeped into his hallucination. He saw Fay with blood pouring from the wound in her chest. The dark purplish-red substance soaking her white sweater, and turning the fibers to crimson, but rather than it puddling on the carpet as always, something else happened; the liquid started to form wings coming from her shoulders. It formed complete angel wings, and Fay sat up. The wings still flowing with blood, she walked towards Joe, and reached out as if to hug him. She came closer, and he moved towards her, sobbing, and gasping between words, “I’m…so…sorry…I…I didn’t…mean it…I’m s sorry Fay” she grasped him in her arms and whispered, “It’s your fault, Joseph.” Her fingers dug into his back, and started tearing the flesh from him. She reached between his ribs, and tore his heart away from his body. She held it up in front of him and said, “Joseph…you maliciously killed me. Now it’s your turn to feel it.” She squeezed his heart in both hands, and sank her teeth into it. She bit it, and tore at its rind; her teeth had become deformed, and sharp. She tore a bite off, and looked at Joe. Blood was dribbling from her lips, down her chin and neck, and soaking her once white sweater even more. Just then he snapped out of it, and ran all the way back home.

As soon as Joe set foot in his room, he fell to the ground, seizing. The image of her holding his heart, still throbbing, with a bite out of it came back. The blood was running down her entire body now, and spelled out: vengeance. She tilted her head back, and bellowed a deep and ominous laughter. She spoke in a tone that was deep and demonic, unlike anything Joe had ever heard outside of death metal bands. “HA, HA, HA! It’s your turn, Joseph! Your turn! Your turn!”

He awoke, and saw a little puddle of blood on his beige carpet from a profusely bleeding nose, which had now ceased. He fell back into his trance, but this time, rather than Fay, he saw his neighbor, the old man, Matt, the gang, Quincy, and everybody around him staring and muttering things to one another. “please…” he pathetically whispered aloud, as everyone moved in upon him. He felt their rage as they encroached upon him and started battering him with anything they could. They cut him, slapped him, screamed at him, beat him with bats…anything and everything they could possibly do to incur pain. He finally snapped out of it one more time, shaking. His nose was bleeding again, and his mother had come to see what was wrong, since he hadn’t gone to work. “Ahh! You little idiot! You bled all over my beautiful carpet!” His mother shrieked, and slapped him across the face. “Look at this! Oh my god! This rug cost hundreds!!” And slapped him again. Joe got up, slowly, and glared at her, feeling a sudden wave of rage. He punched her in the nose, and kicked her in the throat. She fell to the ground, and he slammed his heel into her throat, crushing her windpipe. Her eyes turned to glass as she spat up blood and he went over to his dresser. He tore open all the drawers rummaging through them, throwing all the clothes on the floor. He pulled out the small handgun from the top drawer he recognized from his hallucinations so well. He jammed it into his pants’ pocket, and walked downstairs. His shirt was covered in blood, and his hair was untidily thrown about, a few clumps of it were strewn across his face, and the rest hung lazily all around his head, sodden with sweat. He kept his head tilted slightly downward, so that he had to look up to see straight down the road, and his eyes were filled with a murderous rage. His shirt was open, showing the many bruises about his abdomen, and the swelling bruise on his ribs; it also showed the cross and arrowhead that hung around his neck. He walked over to his neighbor’s house, and broke down the small storm door, barging into his house. “Hey, what the hell are you doing, freak?” Joseph replied, satanically, “Celebrating.” And fired the gun into the man’s forehead pausing to silently revel in his moment as he watched the blood stream out from the small wound in the mans head. He walked back out onto the sidewalk, and proceeded down where he had walked early that morning, his shirt was flowing just behind him, clinging to his shoulders. He walked down to where he had seen Matt, and looked around. Matt saw him, and came running over. “So, fairy, you decided to come back for more?” Joseph calmly replied, “I’m not a fag…” and pulled the gun out, forcing the barrel into Matt’s forehead. “Wha…what are you doing??” Matt pitifully squeaked as he cringed and slinked backwards. “Did you love Fay?” “What?” Matt squeaked. “Did you love my sister before I accidentally shot her?” “Ye…yeah…” “Well then, Matt…you won’t mind going to see her.” And he squeezed the trigger, blood spattering all over Joseph’s face and torso, the gun, and the street, as Matt’s dead body hit the cement with a thud. The noise seemed only to provoke Joseph moreso, as he felt his blood boil in the ecstasy of his triumph. Joseph, with is face and torso now spattered with blood, and a pistol in his right hand, swiftly walked down towards the gang. As he walked, with only one intent—unremorseful murder--, he saw people stop and point at him. He saw the old man he knew from his early walks and went out of his way to kick him in the face, making him fall. Then, forcing his fingers around the old man’s trachea, he tore it right out of his neck; it made an odd sound, which reminded Joe of the sound of a leg being torn off a cooked chicken. The lifeless body now laying on the grass next to the sidewalk, completely inanimate, looked just how it had died—in pain and horror—it had only a bright red puddle where it’s throat once lay, the warm liquid trickling down onto the grass. Joseph buried two fingers in the wound, sinking them all the way in until he could feel the man’s vertebrae and slowly raised them back from the man’s body. He licked the blood cleanly off the fingers, and walked on as though nothing had happened. He saw the circle of boys come into view, and stepped over to a nearby building, looking for something to steady the pistol on. He found a piece of rebar jutting out from the wall, and set the gun’s barrel on it. He first identified Quincy, and aimed the gun at his knee. Joseph squeezed the trigger, seeing the blood fly from Quincy’s leg in a red bowtie, followed by Quincy’s body curling up and smacking down on the street. As the rest of the boys pulled out their own weapons, and looked around, Joseph took aim at one of their heads. He fired one slug into one of the kids’ heads, which was followed immediately by a sickening sucking sound, and sprayed blood out of his forehead. He proceeded to aim at the next, pumping another round off on that one. This one staggered about for about three seconds, with blood literally pouring from his head, then hit the asphalt with a lifeless thud. After he killed the latter, the other four boys scattered to different parts of the street. He was able to fire off a round, and injure one more who was heading towards the trees on the opposite side of the street before he could get away, the others simply left him behind. Joseph walked up to where the circle of boys had been, and now only Quincy and two dead boys lie. He looked up at the boy lying on the street, who he had injured, and saw that he had the bullet buried in a vital spot and he would die in a few minutes. Not bothering to waste another bullet on him, Joseph proceeded to Quincy and the other two dead bodies. The two dead boys lay in their own growing pools of blood, with more dark crimson liquid spilling from the purple circles in the backs of their heads. One of them was lying on his side, and Joseph was able to see the exit wound. It was literally pouring blood out by the quart onto the street. The dark purple oblivion in the boy’s head had bits of white scattered throughout and spattered onto the street, mingling harmoniously with the blood. The two were lying next to each other, their heads almost meeting at the tops. Joseph walked up to Quincy, who was holding his wound, and said “Hello, Quincy…been a long time since we last got to talk, eh?” “Joseph…don’t do anything stupid…you know the pigs’ll get you if you kill me. If you don’t, you might have a chance…think about it, man.” “Hmm…I think this’ll work, right here…” Joseph sadistically said, as he took aim and released a shell into Quincy’s other knee, decorating the street with a yellow, white, red, and purple painter’s pallet. “AAAAHHHHH!!!! STOP!! STOP!! PLEASE!!!” Quincy screamed, begging for mercy. “Let’s see how long you can take this without screaming, Quincy.” Joseph said, and laughed an ominous, deep laughter. He aimed at Quincy’s left shoulder, and squeezed the trigger, painting the street with a melody of bodily fluids; the colours were flowing together, and looked like a discoloured oil spill. “AAAHHHHGGHHH…AHHHHH!! STOP!!” Quincy’s pitiful screams only conferred an insane feeling of joy and hate in Joseph, hence allowing him to walk past his morals, continuing his torture. Quincy shrieked through tears and sobs. “Come on Quincy…let me hear you scream. Yes…oh, how I love that sound! Big boys don’t cry, Quincy.” Joseph shot Quincy in the right shoulder, and finished off his malevolent Picasso on the street. Joseph checked the magazine, and saw that he had only two shots left. “Do it…do it…I dare you…pussy!” Choked Quincy through bloody coughs and tears. Joseph got down on one knee and said, “I will…but first, I’m going to take some of you with me to hell. Then you’ll be my slave for the rest of eternity. Quincy spat on Joseph; procuring little glob of blood and saliva mixed together. Joseph pulled out a little bic lighter from his pocket, and put it up to Quincy’s face. He flicked the flint a few times, then lit it up, and held it there for about a minute. “You don’t deserve to see my face as I kill you.” He let the flame go out on the lighter, and touched the metal, snapping his hand back from the heat. “Heh, yep…it’s hot enough.” He muttered to himself, and lowered the lighter to Quincy’s left eye. He pressed the metal in, and Quincy screamed in agony completely defying the weakness he felt throughout, “AHHHH!!” and Joseph pushed the lighter farther into his eye socket, listening to the lighter hiss as it burned through the retina, and scorched Quincy’s eyeball. He removed the lighter from Quincy’s socket, which was now occupied by a steely looking ball. Joseph then looked straight into Quincy’s functioning eye and lowered his head, lapping up some of the blood that was leaking from one of the wounds in Quincy’s shoulder. “FUCK YOU!” Shouted Quincy, “FUCK YOU!! I ain’t nobody’s slave!” He coughed up more blood, then said, “Ya fuckin’ fag…ain’t nobody’s damn slave…” Joseph got back up and pushed the barrel of the gun into Quincy’s functioning eye, until he felt the eyeball pop under the pressure. It made a sound like an insect being squeezed until it bursts, and covered the gun in a milky substance—it had the uncanny appearance of egg whites. “You’re mine” he whispered, and pulled the trigger.

“I love you, Fay…and I won’t get to see you in heaven, ‘cause I’m headin’ down to hell. But know that I love you.” Joseph looked out upon the beautiful lake, which lay sparkling; reflecting the day’s dying hours of a watercolour orange, red, and yellow pastel. He slowly raised the barrel of the gun just behind his ear, becoming completely oblivious to the screams and sirens, which enveloped him, and inaudibly whispered, “Farewell…” then heard the world about him explode into darkness.