Here it is as promised: my first short story which I've written for this blog. Enjoy!
“Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Meyers? I do. I believe that we’re all haunted by the ghosts of those we have wronged. Do you know why I believe? It’s because I’m haunted, Mr. Meyers. I’ve been followed by the ghosts of my past all my life. They whisper to me, they torment me. After a while you just want to end it all, and all it takes is just...one...bullet.” Jason almost whispered while pointing a gun directly at his own temple, his face so close that Mr. Meyers could feel the warmth of the madman’s breath on his face as he breathed his slow and sinister words, sending shivers up his spine. Mr. Meyers was secured tightly to an old wooden chair in the middle of a vast open space, only a circle of which was lit by the bright shine of the moon while the rest of the surrounding area was swathed in a thick blanket of darkness. A piece of old cloth filled his mouth, rendering him speechless, helpless. Jason smiled, the contrasting beams of illuminating white light from the moon to the darkness of the decrepit and derelict old barn casting eerie shadows across his face. Rising to his feet he began to pace around the room, waving his gun in contemplation. Looking towards the crystalline starlit sky he continued; “I should know. It’s what I wanted. But I fought it! I carried on doing what I did and after a while I stopped listening, stopped caring...and now? I’m free!” Jason looked at his captive and raised his hands, grinning at the notion, happy that for once in his life he was no longer disturbed by the waking nightmares of his guilt. Mr. Meyers flinched with fear every time Jason quickly moved his hands, gesturing as he spoke, because the thought that Jason could end him at any second had built up a tension inside him which he could not release. “I know you want me to tell you that I’m sorry for what I’ve done, that I repent for all the things I’ve done, that I’ll never do it again but the truth is I’m not sorry. You wouldn’t understand the reasons if I told you, not even if I showed you.” Jason smiled slightly, chuckling quietly at the thought, but his good mood did not endure for long before his eyes became dark and glinted like coal and an angry expression contorted the features of his face.
“Do you
know what it feels like to be pushed to the edge of society, being told you’re
a worthless piece of shit and no-one gives a damn?” Jason shouted, storming
over to the chair to which Mr. Meyers was bound. “I’ve felt that all my life.
Ha! They thought I wasn’t good at anything. They thought I was stupid...I
showed them. So if you’re asking me why I do what I do, it’s simple; for the
rush. At first it was more about justice, a little bit of vengeance for being
treated like dirt. I mean, who else was going to do it if not me? The law never
did anything so I had to take matters into my own hands, didn’t I? But then it
became more of a hobby. I mean I had finally found something I was good at, and
I loved it.” Jason smiled widely,
exposing a row of white teeth. In his expression was something which almost seemed
like a demented wild hunger beginning to burn inside the monster of his mind, a
thought which knotted the stomach of Mr. Meyers and sent chills trailing across
his skin as though he was being crawled on by the smallest insects. “It started
out small; ‘taking care’ of those who had wronged me, before I got picked up by
some of the more powerful people who gave me money for doing certain contracts.
But the thing about those kinds of people is that they always see you as a
loose end to tie up, so I just had to get rid of them before they had a chance
to get rid of me. You could say I’m like a mercenary I suppose. After that
though, it just became normal; a daily routine. I can’t even go a day without
doing what I do best.”
A loud screeched echoed in the
ominous old barn as Jason dragged a silver metal chair and dropped it directly
in front of Mr. Meyers. Casually he raised the gun and pointed it between Mr.
Meyers’ eyes, hovering it in front of his face. “When you’re staring down the
barrel of your own gun, aiming at your next victim, they plead with you to let them go. “Oh no, please spare me.” “I have a family.”
“I’m too young.” “I’ve never done anything
to you.” “I don’t deserve this.” I’ve
heard every plea!” His fist smacked
down on a nearby table with a loud crack “And I don’t even care anymore. You
know why? Because at that moment, that exact
moment, you literally hold their life in your hands and you can take it away with
one squeeze of the trigger. One squeeze.” He paused, light flickering in his
dark eyes like an excited fire dancing to a tune. “That’s when the adrenaline
kicks in, coursing through your veins, pumping your heart faster and faster
until you can barely resist the urge. No one ever knew it was me. No one even ever
heard the shot. I was too professional to falter at that hurdle. Oh I’ve learnt
every trick of the murdering trade.” Jason leant back in the hard steel chair
with a small smile etched across his smooth, young, slender face. His tousled
russet brown hair was longer on the top than the sides, and his dark brown eyes
glinted with satisfaction. He wore a black Armani suit with the white shirt
open at the collar, a pair of black leather gloves, platinum and diamond
cufflinks and a pair of black shoes which shimmered in the beam of moonlight that
streamed from the hole in the ceiling. Mr. Meyers sat opposite, his smoky grey
eyes filled with fear as he studied his captor. He was older than Jason by
about twelve years and the hardship of being a special-agent had been wrought
on his face. His cropped black hair and stubble darkened the handsome features
of his light beige face, only lightened slightly by the grey-silver waistcoat,
white shirt and black shoes and trousers he wore. The collar of his white shirt
was stained with blood which trickled down his face from a combination of
injuries: a gash in his forehead, a broken nose, and a cut eyelid from the full
force of a pair of brass knuckles.
Jason rose to his feet and moved
the chair out of the way. As he altered the fit of his gloves he spoke calmly,
almost too calmly, saying “I’m sorry you had to get involved in this Mr.
Meyers, truly I am, but you should’ve backed out when you had the chance." Jason’s face was almost expressionless as he pressed the
cold steel of the gun against his victim’s skull. "Goodbye Mr. Meyers.”
~ Jones' Journal
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