beautifully grotesque...

Yea, though, I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; rather, I shall become evil in its self.

My first thoughts of murder had not been so simple as other killers; mine was a pure crime of passion. I was twenty seven years old and had the fire of a young man’s rage in my heart.

There was no reason for me to hate him. He had brought me into his business, paid me more money than most of the other workers, and, at times, even treated me as a son but all was not well in paradise.

The end result of a small mistake lead to his temper rising to the point of violence. He never would have killed me as I did him but he was not fueled with his own mortality and the youth of a young man such as I.

He would tell me on certain days that “just because I happened to be his son, did not mean I was the best worker at the job” and “it was my prerogative to work up to the pay that some of the other workers had already earned.” He would tell me that a father wants to see his son making something of himself rather than getting it for free.

The night I killed him, I felt no remorse. The house was quiet and even the field mice were asleep. My pay had not allowed me to move out of the house but I feel my father rather liked that I stayed at home anyway.

I planned everything so carefully, nothing could have gone wrong. If I got away with the murder, I even had an alibi: I was to be spending the night at a dear friend's house and I had locked my room from the inside so he would never discover that I had quietly slipped out the window. My friend even lived on the first floor so I didn’t have to use a rope or leave anything that might be suspicious.

The knife was clutched tightly in my hand and I could think of nothing else but the anger I had for playing my father’s second all the time. I could see the stairs in his house that I had climbed so many times. The carpeting still smelling like the Old Spice soaked old man.

The hallway seemed to stretch on for a mile as I crept down it towards his bedroom, putting to reality the technique I practiced every day as a kid to surprise him. I memorized all the creaky boards and stepped on none of them.

The door creaked open and my father awoke to see me standing at his door. He ran to me to ask me what was the matter and I hugged him sliding the knife below his sternum and into his heart while embracing him at the same time. Gently I kissed him on the forehead as he slowly started to slide away, with a look of utter confusion, directly in my eyes.

As he slipped away my mind started to race. My heart started to beat faster, my condition started to wind down and I saw death standing at my door in addition to that which had already come and claimed my father.

I fell to the floor and began to cough. Blood rushed from my mouth and seemed to congeal in a comfortable position because it knew that which joined it had already spilled that night.

I knew before I murdered him, that I was dying. I had expected to die on this night because of what my doctors had told me about the approaching doom if I did not quit my life habits.

As I saw the darkness coming fast, I thanked god for a quick death, even though it seemed like an eternity. I had accomplished my last goal in life and would not be found guilty for the death of my father because for all the police would know, it may have been an argument that escalated.

Murder was to be my final act. As I slipped into darkness, I asked no forgiveness; I only told the world I knew goodbye and wished all a holy hell.

The night was cool and passion ran deep in the room. Two bodies lay on the floor; the last two of a generation, father and only son. The night wished them well and brought a cool summer breeze to the apartment they wouldn’t be found for three days.

Vengeance was found one night on a non-vindictive basis and all was quiet and forgotten at the end of the day.