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Chapter twenty-one

Lucien

Past

“ G et back here!”

No chance was I doing anything remotely close to that. I have been doing this long enough to know that if I give any sort of surrender then I am going to end up in some piddly county jail, when I have my eyes set on a bigger prize.

I want to be in max.

People may consider me a little insane; well, a lot, but that is beside the point. I have my reasons to get into Darkwater and I’m not going to delay the matter anymore. Where the Lord calls me is where I will go—the problem is getting there. I typically keep my kills under wraps, but I need to go on some sort of spree, and leave a trail of corpses to garner the attention of the state government. The world needs to fear me, rightfully so; that way I can secure my place.

You may be asking why it’s so important to be thrown into a facility that I likely would never escape from, and all I can say is, the wicked thrive where the wicked sleep. Punishment is nothing when you receive free food, room and board, and any other basic necessities you require. Those who make up the inmate population benefit from being incarcerated, and while I keep my focus on the blasphemous individuals of the flock, God wants me to punish some I’ll never get access to outside of prison.

Besides, many orderlies don’t process their reports when there is prisoner-on-prisoner crime. I would, simply, be doing them all a favor. A resident meat grinder if you will, churning out their worst while flying stealthily under the radar.

Right now, however, I’m running from the security officer that mans the neighborhood I just decimated. There are four prominent families in this community with children who thought they could take over the world. Each leave their own brand of destruction; all of which, are able to escape punishment due to their parents’ influence.

Unlucky for them though, there is no amount of coverage they can receive that absconds them from my Father’s wrath. Silly kids—their lives snuffed out in only their early twenties. I’m sure they had some potential, but the only thing they will amount to now, is leading to my successful arrest. Which should come right after I make it away from this guard, and run through the surveillance path of every camera in the neighborhood I mapped out a few weeks ago.

I want them to see me before discovering the extent of what I have done.

The sound of my boots slap against the dirt and rock, joining with my heavy breaths. While I’m not a big guy, and I am fairly thin, I usually don’t find myself running like this. It’s apparent, from a stamina standpoint, I am out of shape. I guess, once I get locked up, I can fix that.

I hope they have a decent rec yard—county’s was abysmal.

Sprinting as hard as I can, for as long as I can, I run in and out of the glow of street lamps once I exit the neighborhood, well outside of the security officer’s jurisdiction—so much for observing and reporting. He can’t do anything to me if he could have caught up anyway—a limitation on his behalf. The state supported citizens’ arrests, but the act itself usually leads to civil lawsuits. Companies don’t like to deal with them, therefore it’s better to avoid them altogether.

When I was getting a lay of the land and doing the research necessary to sneak in and get my chore taken care of, I discovered that the company who provides security services does not employ armed officers, which only made it better for me—all bark and no bite.

Beginning to slow, now that I didn’t hear the heavier man running behind me. Either I’m too fast for him or he went back to his post to start reporting the breach of security. The cops will have my photo and all the camera footage before morning and my face will be plastered all over the local news channels. I can see it now “ last night, a man broke into the homes of four prominent families and murdered all the heirs and heiresses. If you see this individual, consider him armed and extremely dangerous. Please report any sightings or tips to the authorities.”

I should probably repent when I get back to my hide out, the factory I have been staying at for a while. It is a sin to gloat, to envy, and to boast after all. I would be a liar if I said I don’t feel a certain way when thinking about seeing my face and crimes on TV. I already need to be punished for three sins, let’s not make it four.

It didn’t take me long to get back to where I am currently staying—an abandoned building. My father says I can come home, when he sends me text messages, that is. Trying to convince me to return so we can continue God's work together. Him preaching to the congregation while I try to reach the younger flock. He still doesn’t understand that our Lord has called me elsewhere, even if I try to explain it to him, we just end up getting into heated discussions for which I punish myself for later.

Every time I move into a new abandoned space, I bring the necessities—a backpack with a few pieces of clothing, charger for my phone, my flogger—a knotted series of ropes with spikes on the end; the only items that matter to me.

Trudging up to the gate that clearly has been hanging off one of the hinges for years, I squeeze through the narrow opening, then jog over to the single window that I busted out. Kicking away more broken glass, I drop down to my knees and swing my legs around until I am sitting on my backside. Feeding myself feet first into the blackened space beyond the window. I then sink inside and slip out of sight.

Inside, I rummage around until I find the door that leads out of an old storage unit for this building. Opening it to a hallway with another door sitting directly across from the one I hold open now. Swapping one for the other, I close the first and open the second, stepping inside.

This one, I know, used to be an office since I was able to find items that deemed it so. Old beige keyboards and monitors that have since shattered. Bookcases with vintage business and manufacturing titles still littering the shelves, and there is even a desk. That is what I consider home amongst everything else.

Along the back wall was a twelve-inch-tall window that spans the entire length of the wall— allowing moonlight to spill in and illuminate the old office. The whole building provides shelter from the elements, and it is quiet and secure, the perfect place to hide out for a bit.

Walking over to the desk, I pull out my backpack and toss it down where I can, using the space under it as additional shelter. Dropping to my knees, I fluff the backpack somewhat then maneuver myself until I am able to lay back against it, using it as a pillow. My legs stretch out until they threaten to touch the wall where the windows stretch.

I haven’t decided how long I am going to run before I let someone find me and turn me over to the police. But what I do know is that I am going to cause panic. Take out a few more people, raise more concerns, have people believing that they can’t go anywhere without the thoughts of getting snatched up and brutally murdered.

You did a good job out there today, my son.

A smile pulls across my mouth when I hear the Lord's voice. He is always comforting. Instead of responding, as not to disrespect him, I give him the space he needs to speak to me further.

You are my greatest disciple; the world will learn to fear you, and me in turn. Go, my child, rest. When the day brings anew, I shall send for you. I have another task for you to complete.

“Yes, my Lord,” I respond.

Turning, I curl up on my left side, drawing my knees up to get comfortable. I have grown accustomed to sleeping on surfaces such as dingy floors, having lost a true bed when I left the congregation at eighteen. It’s been hard floors, cold meals, and bitter seasons since.

The Lord keeps you company though, Lucien.

Another voice adds.

Yes, all you need is shelter and purpose.

Another one.

Close your eyes, Lulu, and go to sleep for me like a good boy.

The last one, a softer, more feminine one says.

The woman’s voice, as I like to believe, though she has never confessed who she is to me, is my mom.

I miss her with everything in me but God assures me that her job on this Earth is complete. She gave me life, gave me a home to survive, and taught me how to be a stronger man. She gave me eyes to see wickedness, the patience to observe, and the cunning to bring evil to its knees.

Months later, I am exactly where I want to be—sitting in a cell at county awaiting my trial. Of course, I took a not guilty plea so the prosecutor would force me to go to court, and I could face the maximum sentence the state of Michigan could award. With the money of four families buying out the law offices in the city, I wasn’t getting out of here at all.

Not that I wanted to be released. Someone is waiting for me.

I have my other hearing later today, and since I chose to represent myself, rather than having a public defender, this trial was not leaning in my favor. I refused to provide a true defense or argument; the televisors ran with the story and were astonished that someone would give up their right to a fair trial. I think after today we will move into deliberations then sentencing. I may even motion for them to provide sentencing today because I’m getting fed up with the pomp and stance.

I’m bored.

“Bardot, on your feet,” the jailer orders when he rounds the corner. His keys clink against the metal of the cell lock as he shoves the key in and turns it. The mechanism holding the bars secure giving way.

Fluidly, I lift up from the still made bed I have had the luxury of sleeping on. I was turned in by a concerned citizen after walking into an arcade where children were playing. I was looking for someone to keep me occupied while waiting to be picked up. But before I could descend upon a woman that was sliding her hand along the legs of a child that was not hers, SWAT stormed in and the arcade erupted into chaos.

I was half angry, which I punished myself for that night, and half relieved that someone finally said something to the authorities. I was beginning to think that people were not nearly as distraught with a serial killer roaming the streets as they had made out on the news. The longer I am alive, the more I notice just how ill-concerned society truly is. They turn blind eyes so they are not forced to deal with the consequences of our fall out. It’s sad, it’s people like them who have allowed others to harm the innocent, and though I don’t have the means to kill all of them, I wish I did.

Here I stand now, presenting my wrists to the jailer so he can secure them—knowing my ankles would be next, followed by a chain that connects both sets of cuffs. They are not taking any chances with me, which is smart on their behalf, but it would be ignorant of me to do anything when I am so close to my prize.

The way the chain scrapes along the tiled floor, announce my presence, like some sort of doomsday beacon.

I’ve seen the way the jurors look at me, along with the remaining family members of the affluent ones I have ripped apart. Their glances never bother me, I learned to get over the judgment a long time ago. I want them to see me though, to know that I’m the one who brought their families bloodline to a violent end.

If you asked me when was the first time I noticed the judgment, it was when I started kindergarten. The other little kids would ask me why my pants were still dirty or why I wore the same shirt a few days in a row. I didn’t know why other than it was all I had.

They would make faces at me, call me rude names, and instead of allowing my feelings to take hold, I just shut down. I knew that if I got in trouble at school then I would find out how angry my dad was when I got home. It only took one day to teach me the valuable lesson behind staying quiet and not getting in trouble at school. A boy shoved me forward and made me fall to my hands and knees at recess. When I got up, I punched him in the face, like I have watched my dad do to my mom.

When I got home that night, my dad took a belt to my behind. He beat me so much that welts and bruises covered almost every square inch of skin from the underside of the knees up to my lower back.

He told me I had to be a good boy in school or I would end up like this every time. That the only way to survive the world was to listen to people older than me and to behave, and that there was no room for violence.

Ironic.

Little did he know that he would lead me far, far away from that path as I got older.

Stepping over to my chair, I sit down onto it, remaining still as the jailer uncuffs my hands and feet then proceeds to attach them to the metal bar that was bolted to the table I now sit behind.

Anything for safety.

If there was anyone in this room that the Lord would want me to kill, it would be the judge. I’ve seen his name come across the news before, Walker, I think it is. He is easy to bribe from what has been discovered, but that’s not why I am here.

Stay focused, my son.

“Yes, my Lord,” I murmur.

This will be over before you know it, then you can get to work again. Remember what I told you, you complete your task, then you can find the person you seek.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Lucien, are you ready to proceed?” Judge Walker asks.

“Yes, your honor.”

It was going to be a long day, but I will manage, I am a man of immense patience after all. I have been working towards this moment for years, and the moment it all comes to a head, everything will be worth it.

“Very well, if the prosecution would proceed with the evidence,” Judge Walker instructs.

It took two more hearings before I received my sentencing, but they were sure to keep me in custody through the duration—there is no ‘time served’ in cases like this. I had no intention for the whole thing to drag across several months, but you can’t rush the American judicial system unfortunately.

I didn’t get to float around society and wait for things to fall apart around me. No, I was allowed to remain in a cell away from others with a bed, food, and warmth. Something that I haven’t been blessed with experiencing in a long time.

Burden on society, the tabloids said.

Put him six feet under. Stand him in front of a firing squad. Bring back the death penalty.

The pure hatred I could see in the faces of the families I crippled brought me an immense amount of pleasure and joy. Even as they grunted in frustration at the sentencing I was provided.

Needless to say, today is my last day in county, and I am being loaded onto a bus and shipped off. The drive will last about four hours which gives me time to sleep. While others may find transport unnerving, I doubt any one of them will attempt to get out of their seats, let alone bother me—not with constant supervision, complete with guns.

I prefer knives, but I know you don’t bring those to a gunfight, so I will keep myself in my seat.

Next stop, Darkwater Correctional Institute.