it won’t be pretty. But if you wanna write out a quick note to your mammy or whoever to say goodbye then I’ll give you a moment to do it. But don’t go gettin’ any daft ideas about mentioning me in your note. Because then I’d have to cave her head in after I deliver it. And I hate killing mammies because of stupid fuckers like you.”
"I want to live," he gasped. Why didn’t they ever take me up on the offer of writing that note? I’d wanna remind the people I cared about that I loved them if I knew I was gonna die. Or at least, I imagined I would if I gave half a shit about a single soul on this planet. Unfortunately I wasn’t convinced I did, so maybe I wouldn’t take up the offer of the note either.
"Are you sure about that? Because I can make it swift if you wanna accept it. But if you're so certain you wanna live then we can make a time of it. I have a few hours to kill before I'm to meet my pa for breakfast and no doubt you'll be begging for death before I have to leave."
Burnley tried to run and I struck him with the hammer, straight to the temple. Hard enough to stun him a bit, but not enough to finish the job. He’d said he wanted to live after all, so it made sense to put that to the test.
He fell back against his pillows, pressing a hand to his head where I'd hit him like he couldn't quite believe I'd actually done it. I cocked my head as I watched him, waiting for that lightbulb moment - the one where he'd look up at me and see the devil I was. And as his gaze met mine again, I got my wish. Bingo. Total terror – wait a moment, was that ad for corned beef?
Burnley lurched out of the bed and I let him go this time, following him from the room as he staggered away, making a predictable run for the door. I'd have gone for the kitchen knives personally. Better to give yourself a fighting chance and all that, but maybe Burnley just didn't have any fight in him.
He reached the door and started struggling with the lock just before a blow from my hammer sent him crashing to the floor with a cry of pain. I grinned down at him as he stared up at me like I was a monster, trying to do a kind of backwards elbow crawl wriggle away thing, like that would make a jot of difference.
The next time I struck him, I was fairly sure I fucked him up good enough that he wasn't with me anymore, but I let my inner animal loose and made a blood bath out of it all the same. I hit him over and over, not stopping until my arm was aching and the job was complete.
I stowed my hammer back in my belt and took a knife out next, removing a finger for Pa.
I had a fancy little gift box all ready in my pocket to put it in and everything. He'd never actually asked me to start bringing him proof of death when I killed for him, but I liked to present it as a gift and tell him I had a no returns policy. He just accepted it these days. Besides, the true meaning behind my presents for him was a joke I'd only ever told myself and I still found it really fucking funny. Because I didn’t just pick any finger. Oh no. It was the middle finger, just so that I got the pleasure of knowing the mark was flipping my pa off when he opened the box to see it. Little pleasures and all that.
Once that was all wrapped up with a bow, I strolled away from the bloody lump of flesh that had once been Burnley and headed into his bathroom to take a shower and wash the blood off. Apparently it didn't do to stroll around town covered in blood, though I did feel that I shouldn't have to hide my lifestyle to conform to social ideals. Were there any occupations that had to deal with so much hatred as psychopaths? Where were the equal opportunity protesters who flew my flag? Although I had heard that there were some people who liked reading stories like mine about fucked up