Page 16 of So Lethal (Faith Bold #22)
“Growing concern in San Jose as Channel Ten News has just learned that there is possibly a serial killer targeting hearing-impaired people in the Bay Area. According to an anonymous tip from a social worker who leads a support group for hearing-impaired people at the South Bay Community Center, three hearing-impaired people have been killed over the past three days by an as-yet unidentified individual. The killer is believed to lie in wait for his victims and then strangle them. Among the victims are San Jose artist Monica Smith, a graphic designer by trade whose recent entry into the Bay Amateur Art competition won silver.”
The reporter continued to talk about the victims and shared the sobering news that the FBI still had no leads on the suspect.
The killer listened, somewhat amused at the sensationalism the news was lending the story but mostly irritated at the way the deaths were presented.
Monica’s artistry was celebrated, but no mention was made of the fact that the musical arts were inaccessible to her.
She spoke at length about James Porter’s contributions to his local community and not one person mentioned that he had no idea what birdsong sounded like.
Sarah Martinez was depicted as a loving mother, and no one gave a damn that she couldn’t hear her sister’s voice anymore.
Why would they want these people to live such a shitty life? Were they that cruel? Could they not understand mercy when they saw it?
The killer sighed and switched off the tv. People took so much for granted. The killer would guarantee that if any of those people lost their hearing, they would understand exactly how horrible life was for the “victims.”
"No one should have to live like this," the killer said. Or at least I intended to say. For all the killer knew, the words came out as unintelligible grunts and moans.
The killer stood and headed to the kitchen to prepare dinner. As the killer mixed flour and spices to bread the chicken breasts that would be served with mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus, thoughts of the next killing came to the forefront.
The public was too focused on the violence of the act.
That was the problem. Honestly, the killer would rather allow people to become comfortable and liberate them with an injection of some powerful barbiturate so they could ease into freedom.
The issue with that was the fact that the people the killer liberated didn't seem to understand their deaths as liberation.
The killer didn't blame them for that. This was the only life they knew, even if it was a poor one.
They didn't understand that beyond the threshold of physical death was something greater: freedom from the struggles of this life.
The killer needed to show that something greater. But how to show something that couldn’t be experienced with the senses? How to convince people to have faith that there was a life waiting for them free of ailments like the ones the deaf suffered?
The killer would need to think on that for a while.
As the killer finished dinner, his body reacted as it always did when it was hungry.
Anticipation of the meal ahead drove away grief at the life the killer lived.
The taste of the chicken costoletta and the pinot noir served with it could for a moment make the killer forget about deafness.
The body was deceptive, and the mind—desperate for any relief from this hell—clung to every lie like a drowning person to a life raft.
But it was only temporary. The meal would end soon, and the killer would have nothing but remnants.
Sight remained, but what was sight without sound?
Reading words off of the television screen wasn’t the same as hearing them spoken aloud.
Gazing upon someone beautiful was empty when their physical appearance was left unenhanced by an equally beautiful voice.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
The killer’s fingers tightened around the wineglass. The killer set the glass down to avoid shattering it. The killer’s hands bore scars from the time a glass shattered due to the killer’s emotions.
The killer thought of the safe in the basement. That safe contained weapons the killer eschewed for the mission of liberation.
But they worked. They would liberate the killer. Punch in the code, grab one of the weapons, probably the forty-five, press the barrel to the temple and squeeze the trigger.
Freedom. Liberation. Rest.
But that wasn’t the killer’s lot. Not yet. Not until more were freed.
So although the killer wished desperately to be rid of this life, it would have to wait. After dinner, the killer sat in the living room and thought about how to make the message clearer next time.