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GRIM REAPER

S ome people might state that killing is wrong, even if you are ridding the world of evil people. While I agree killing innocent people isn't right, killing people who don't deserve to be here for the sins they have acted on… Now that's a reason to keep doing what I do.

“Stop moving!” I yell, plunging the knife into the man's back, twisting left to right over and over, creating unbearable pain. The thickness makes my lips curl. The sight of blood excites me, giving me adrenaline I don’t need.

“The more you move, the longer this takes.” A grunt hits the room, and a smirk forms on my face. There is just something about watching a man who thought he ruled the world suffer under someone else's control.

My control…

The screams fill the void of my life.

“Don’t cry. No, seriously, please stop crying. The sound makes me want to rip my eyes out.” The man's face turns a dark crimson colour, looking as if it might blow up.

It gives me the feeling of rage around me. He doesn’t get to feel like this after what he did. It takes everything in me not to take a knife and cut his eyeballs out.

Carving out eyes takes a lot of time, and unfortunately, I don't have the time today.

As much as I want to enjoy this, all I can think about are my arms. I can see where I could pick something I don't want to, but I give in and scratch my skin raw. Stopping what I’m doing and looking at my skin, I see multiple scratches and patches where I have picked at it.

I didn’t think it had gotten this bad.

The man hangs, looking at me. I can see him out of the corner of my eye, but I'm not as focused on him as I should be.

All I can focus on is the pain in my arms, the pain I love so much that I'm debating leaving this kill.

What the hell is wrong with me today?

When I kill, I always forget about my arms. I never have the chance to think, but here today, it's all I can think about. It’s consuming me.

Picking and scratching at my skin has been something I have done since I was a young girl. I would black out, not knowing I had been sitting and picking, or I would pick so much. Even when the pain was bad and I was bleeding, I couldn’t stop. I liked the discomfort.

No matter how many times people tell me to stop or that I’m going to have scars for the rest of my life, they don’t understand. I have no control. It’s the one thing in life that takes over my body.

I hate it.

The muffled screams become louder the more I let my brain sink back into reality, only to be reminded it’s the man screaming with everything he has.

I knew I should have kept the duct tape on him.

I'll make a mental note to keep the duct tape on for future kills.

No matter how much I try to focus on the task I'm doing right now, my arms are taking priority over it. They always do.

I'm hurting myself when I should be hurting this man. I don't deserve it, he does, yet my body can't help but punish me.

My body is punishing me for things that were never my fault, for the sins I was left to take on. They haunt me in my sleep, in my head, and worst of all, all over my body, making me feel the pain just like the others did. Leaving me with the scars and proof of the sinister acts I once committed.

The pain tells me I'm starting to feel something. After feeling numb for so long, I would do anything to feel any sort of emotion. Someone could drive a knife into my heart over and over, watching me bleed out, and I would thank them as my soul was sent to hell, right where all the others are sent.

The man trying to fight his way out of his restraints pulls me back to what I’m currently doing. I pull my arm away, moving back to the man.

His eyes are full of pure evil.

“Any last words before I send you into the pits of hell?” An evil laugh leaves my lips, the knife stabbing into the man’s bulge, not giving him a second to answer my question. Dark red blood splatters all over me and the floor. I take my knife, cutting the rope.

The man falls face-first, knocking himself out from the brutality he has endured.

He deserved worse. The devil was inside him, corrupting his mind. He needed to go.

The girls and women he hurt went through much more.

“Ring around the Rosie, a pocket full of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!” I sing, childlike, skipping around the dead body that lies beneath me. I will spend the rest of eternity riding this world of evil men who hurt the women of this earth.

The urge to kill is stronger than ever. I want to go on a hunt, something I never do.

My job is to send souls to hell to live with an eternity of misery, but today, I want to go and pick my next kill.

It’s giving me a thrilling rush, something I'm beginning to like a lot.

I walk out of the room, a concealed bit of red covering every inch of my body.

Red liquid drips throughout the walkway to the bathroom, leaving evidence behind.

Opening the door, I turn on the shower, letting the water warm up.

Locking the door behind me, my knees give in.

My back slides against the door. Tears fall from my eyes like a sink overflowing down my face, creating a wet patch on my top. The sound of my tears and the water hitting the glass door fills the room.

People look at killers and think we have no soul, and while for some, that’s true, for me, it’s not. I’m not crying because I took a life, but because I should have taken it sooner.

If I had, the two girls the man raped would still be breathing, playing in the park like they were before he kidnapped them and brutalised their bodies in more ways than I care to think about.

Running to the toilet, I wrap my hand around my hair, moving the strands out of my face as I puke at the thought of what those girls went through. I wash out my mouth, taking away the bitter taste of food I had eaten earlier in the day.

I know it’s not my fault, but a part of me will never get used to doing this as my way of earning a living.

Not that I earn any money because I don’t.

Most people can’t say they kill people daily. I’m thankful for this job and for the people who gave me it. I’m just not grateful for the files I receive.

When someone is brought to me, I have to read a file on them. Their name, age, where they are from, and what they did, and that determines what I’m going to do. I don’t like that part but it’s something I don’t get a choice in.

I read between the lines the horror that lies beneath their soul. Stripping off my clothes, I toss them on the floor to remember to dispose of them later.

The boiling water feels as if it’s blistering my skin as I step back, readjusting the temperature so it’s colder.

I step back in, letting the water rest on my skin.

The water turns a light red colour as the man’s blood washes down the drain.

A knock at the door startles me. As far as I’m aware, I’m not due a delivery until tomorrow and I don’t have anyone picking up the body for a few hours unless he’s early.

I have been losing sleep, so I could’ve messed up the time. I need to get an early night before I become crazy. Crazier than I already am.

I rush to shut the shower off, wrapping myself in my black silk robe. My body is still soaking wet and clinging to the silk. I slide into the pair of knickers I set aside, also placing my hair in a towel.

I open the drawer below my sink where I place my gun when I’m not using it, sliding it into my knickers.

I pick my pace up as I walk down the hall, shutting the door where the body lies waiting to be taken away.

I open the door to the one person I never thought I would see again, Jessie.

He leans against the door frame, blue jeans, scraggy black top, work boots, his chiselled jaw looking straight at me, and those blue eyes gleaming. So fucking beautiful, I hate it.

Jessie's older than me, so much older that whatever we have could be considered wrong but all that does is fuel me. The way his body and his muscles mould to his top, and his beard freshly trimmed.

He looks deep into my eyes, but I’m only interested in knowing what he wants and shutting the door back in his face.

“What can I do for you?” My voice is pleasant as I fake a smile toward him, my dimples showing while I bite down on my tongue at the same time.

“I have an unusual job for you.” He bites his bottom lip as his eyes roam around me.

He looks up at my eyes, then my chest, where little droplets of water escape from the towel around my hair, landing on my still-wet skin.

He gives me no other clues on what he could need me to do. Jessie looks into my burning eyes.

“You have a job for me? Since when do police officers offer jobs to mass murderers?” I ask, confused but intrigued by what it might be. My hair is still dripping wet from the shower.

“Ex-police officer, I have been out of the game for years. What you do or don’t do is none of my business,” he informs, moving closer toward me and towering over.

Jessie’s been out of the police force for a while.

Something about corrupting evidence. What I know is that no matter how annoying he can be, he’s mine.

He’s the reason I’m alive today.

The reason I'm allowed to do what I do.

“Right, well, thanks for the offer, but I’m rather busy with killing and all that.” I smirk as I try to shut the door, but his firm hands stop as he pushes it open, moving closer to me. The smell of alcohol lingers on his breath as he kisses my neck, but I push him off.

“Oh, I’m sorry, that wasn’t an offer. You will do it, or I would be more than happy to put you back in the basement,” he sneers, taking a step into my house.

In my personal space, the urge to stab him and watch his body bleed out plays in my mind.

“Come in, why don’t you?” I roll my eyes as he walks further in, placing himself on my couch while I’m still only in a robe.

The gun hanging in my knickers rubs against my still-wet skin.