"A Time to Kill, A Time To Not"

Cora Thornton-Silver

Short Story

           

A time to kill, a time to not.

            Thank you for taking the time to read this.

            I understand that people are cynical.

            The world is full of animals, hungry and unmerciful.

            I always experience remorse. Death is all encompassing.

                        But we all have auras around us. We can’t choose.

                        I regret the moments when I…

                                                           

They say that we wear a mask of sanity. However I wear a mask of insanity. My eyes are the scariest things about me. Blue circles, and a green rim merge with a dark pupil. These colors harmonized together. My comrade dressed in orange once told me that I’m apathetic and without passion. I have passion for fatalism. Imagine a meticulous, hungry Black Panther hunting an albino rabbit. This epitomizes me. The slick, shiny fur, the yellow eyes that remind me of an old, stuffed toy seeing through clear marbles. The dark space around me was an oppressive hole of my own murderous thoughts. I was alone in there.

 I lifted the blanket off me and looked out the window. The bright sunrays reluctantly cut through my pupils like a keen knife through a white space. My neighbor was sauntering across his dry, brown lawn to pick up the paper. His dog was ripping into the New York Times menacingly with his slobbering, droopy jaw. The man hit the dog on the nose and grabbed the paper. Then pulled the dog inside, the way white men saw slaves being pulled along with their metal collars.

Why is it socially acceptable for this asshole to beat up his dog? And I can’t exercise my instincts? I used to read the newspapers but after a while you get sick of seeing other versions of yourself on the front page. I picked up my worn; beat up copy of Macbeth instead. The first passage I read was:

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from

Day to day to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our

Yesterdays have lighted fools, the way to dusty death… Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.”

There is method to his madness. In the beginning, he is a boy who is emasculated by his wife but he soon becomes a man with his crown and the loss of his sanity. Shakespeare once said “all the world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players”. I am a player on a single stage with what I covet staring at my face.

I heed his words. I got out of bed and put on my costume. A black hood, black jeans, a Dazed and Confused shirt and black Doc Martens.  I look like a hipster mixed with a small quality that most people couldn’t pin point. Je ne sais quoi.  A little something special. I think it’s the animalistic charisma that lies underneath my rock hard, simply defined exterior. Driving my matte black jeep through the colorful streets of San Francisco defines me as a fugitive amongst the pretty, ornate, cake-like houses in Pacific Heights.

            I kept on driving for another fifteen minutes and came to a storage facility.  It had been abandoned for a couple of years. I come here to hunt out my necessities. The garage door was slightly open so I lay on the floor and rolled underneath. I felt through the darkness to the light switch. Click. Bang. Clash. A stray cat knocked over a bowl of syringes and smashed a glass beaker on the concrete. Hydrochloric acid spilled on the floor like a fizzy drink oozing down a fat kids throat. I reached for the landline in the corner. I dialed the number: (415) 529-0526. He answered. “Are you dressed up?”

 “Yes. How did you know?”

 Then I said, “I can just feel it. Head over to the old Storage Facility on Ellis and Leavenworth and bring the boys,” He agreed and hung up.  

           

                        Kill the innocently minded rabbits in the grass.

                        They don’t deserve this but we are only animals.

                        I experience remorse. Thank you for understanding,

                        Whatever it is that you take away from it.

                        I say the word sorry but it has lost all meaning.

                        In life and in death we are people with guilt.

*

            The cops sat in their patrol car and drank hot coffee.

            Jimmy said, “They aren’t even doing anything! What are we doing here?”

Costello said “Listen up, Jimmy. We know that this guy pulled up to the storage unit about an hour ago and he has already made one phone call. He’s trying to get a gang together. Isn’t that viable evidence?”

Jimmy ignored the other cops question and said, “Dude, you’ve got to check out this squirrel!”

“No.” he said sharply, “This is serious shit here. You have to get with it,” he said without mercy. Costello kicked Jimmy out of the car and said in a hushed tone “You are not here to protect or serve.” The mission was on now. It was just a question of weather Jimmy would be a rat and go tell the deputy or not. The words of Marley faded as quickly as it came. The radio played “I shot the sheriff but I didn’t shoot the deputy…”

*

And there it was. Five of the most notorious, blood thirsty members in a storage unit on Ellis Street. The gurneys were moved to the side, the metal basins full of red water were pushed to the right side of the unit. And a rectangular table was put in its place. The four men sat around it.

“Are we all here?” I asked while standing at the head of the table. There wasn’t a response right away but from the left corner a small ball of fluff rolled under the closing metal gate of the unit.

 “Leather Apron-Leather Apron- Leather Apron” the crowd shouted while standing underneath the blacksmith’s window.

A woman turned to the local Bobbie and said “Bloody Jews! Killing prosies lef and right”.

The blue and silver collar replied, “You don’t got no idea who’s the killa. So shut yor big mouth. Alright Sally!” The sour washerwoman walked away from the crime scene and over to the main drag in Whitechapel.

Children were holding up Penny Dreadfuls and yelling the headlines “Jack the Ripper killed anofver one! Five prosies dead and mutilated!”

            Who was this dismembering monster? He was a demon who had  crawled out of the shadows.  At night, the Ripper stalks his victims, armed with a medical kit. Our men in blue everywhere know his ‘name’. The remains of cut up organs stained the streets of Whitechapel. Women were turned out onto the hunting ground and into the bloody hands of the killer.

“Oh put a sock in it Sally, you really believe that a silly old Jew killed those shilling whores? Nah, you gotta be skilled or smart for that kind of gore.”

                                                            *

            The body snatcher reared his ugly head.  Plainfield, Wisconsin. 1954. This guy likes his souvenirs. We as a globe love these pieces of memorabilia but Ed Gein takes this to a whole new level. He fashioned these pieces out of his victim’s bones and skin. The mad butcher was guilty of twenty crimes including the incident where he made leggings out of human skin. He spent his final life sentence in a mental hospital.

“Gein, you have to take your meds now,” said the authoritative voice in the white coat. “Meds now- take them – now- now” The screams of his cellmate woke Ed from a highly sedated sleep.

“What the fuck do you want mother fucker!” He screamed from the top of his lungs. This was not the first time Bill had been jumping up and down on his bed while spitting simultaneously. The gray walls of the six by twelve inch ‘room’ were splattered with a gooey, custard-like substance.  

“You’re a psycho! What are you doing?” he said. But Bill just stared back at him for a moment, mulling over what he heard.

“Oh you think your less of a psycho than me, you crazy, skin collector.” He said.

The voice appeared in the doorway. He spoke in a monotonous tone as if announcing the change in train’s times to La Crosse County, Wisconsin.

He moaned, dragging out his words “Come on you two. Keep it down. Time to take meds.”

            “Yes Bruce! Lets go get high,” he said with a broad grin on his face, which resembled that of a circus freak. When he was young, his father beat up Edward to a pulp. He still has the scars on his face, back and neck. One scar in particular though, made him infamous. This scar was behind his ear, where Mr. Gein had proudly decided to mark his territory with a rusty, old key.

            The body snatcher reared his ugly head. He crept up behind his next victim who was grieving her brother’s death by the family plot.  Flash. Bang. Snip. She was gone.

*

                        Imagine if you were I. It’s more of a mental hunger than a physical one. Get your game face on and move closer to your pray. Go on! Do it. You are in the jungle. The oppressive humidity is slowly changing you into a soft, hot mess. There is only one other living thing in your midst. That is a juicy, voluptuous, lean Giraffe. You haven’t eaten in weeks. Show those big white teeth but don’t bite down yet. You might scare it away. But you’ve survived based upon the teaching methods of Stanislavski. Keep in mind that you could die if you don’t eat but it will be murder. What are you going to do? Kill or be killed. Follow your instincts and choose wisely.

                                                            *

            The Manson family defined the term ‘Clan’. Charles Manson was the leader of that clan. He was the red flag to his bull. The most gruesome members of the Manson family were Patricia Krenwinkel, Charles Watson, Barbara Hoyt and Mary Brunner. Charles Manson and his clan were famous for the bloody murders of Sharon Tate and her friends.

            It was dark outside. Sharon lay on the couch sleeping. The large bump visible under her tank top. She was eight months pregnant at the time. Her husband Roman was working on a film in London. He didn’t want to leave her but Sharon insisted.

“You can’t pass up the opportunity to do this.” Sharon said as she stroked his hair. He told her he loved her and boarded the plane. Thinking back to this moment, Sharon wished she hadn’t said anything. Although she enjoyed the company of her friends, Sharon felt scared and nervous without Roman around.

            Their last meal was at a Mexican restaurant on Beverly Boulevard. Tex Watson, Charles Manson and Linda Kasabian hopped into their 1959 ford and drove up to the house. They climbed the sides of the house like spiders weaving a web. Sharon and her friends were found in a mess the next day.

                                                                        *

            The ‘killer clown’ will hunt you down. John Wayne Gacy molested thirty-three teenage boys and young men in Chicago, Illinois. He picked up the glass case and opened it with a shiny, silver key and takes out the first color. White face. Two blue triangles. Red mouth. Red hat. Netted fringe. Four balloons in his right hand.

“I’m ready to go” he told himself. The corners of his mouth curled flashing his teeth coated with a layer of dried blood “Damn beer stains” he thought. Looking back in the mirror, the clown slipped on his white gloves leaving the dark apartment in downtown Chicago. His very simple, clean-cut, neighbor wearing a sweater surely his grandmother knitted him, passed the clown on the way down the stairs.

            “Hello, so are you going to that kids birthday party you mentioned earlier?” Simon said.

The ‘killer crown’ replied “yeah, what’s it to you?”

Simon stuttered over his words almost tripping on the next step “No-no-nothing. I’m sorry!” The killer turned away and left the building. He doesn’t waste time on the weak ones. That wasn’t his type anyway. He has a taste for young blood.

            Although this nasty killer murdered and assaulted thirty-three young boys and men, he was only charged with twelve. He should have donated his brain to science, just to see what was inside. I imagine it’s as if you threw a ball around a room with a high ceiling and it bounced from the left top corner to the lamp in the bottom right corner than flew through the window and never came back.

                                                            *

            I never waste a cigarette much like I never waste a sleeping gazelle in the grass. I wish I could leave half a smoked, wet cigarette in the greenery but I wouldn’t want to litter my sin for anyone to see. Am I really a serial killer? I have only killed two people.  

A serial killer is typically defined as a person who murders three or more people over a period of more than thirty days.

            I feel guilty for my crimes. I may hunt in the wild but I don’t enjoy the taste of blood. I hate my own work. I want to show my intricate vulnerabilities. I am not perfect. I may possess narcissistic tendencies but I also know when to be humble. 

            I am not a real killer. I am a hungry, Black Panther who must hunt but only with the most sorrowful eyes. The best of times were when I was a small panther weaving threw the weeds and investigating endless possibilities. But as a wise woman once told me “curiosity killed the cat”. There is a time to kill and there’s a time to leave the rest of the world alone in its bliss.

As William Shakespeare said “'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I would rather love and loose that love or life.

“Out damned spot” I say. “To bed, to bed. There’s knocking at the gate. Come, Give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed!” Lady Macbeth- Act five scene one.