My short-story

[wendigo]

I have just completed a short-story that I'm going to enter for my school magazing and local newspaper. I'd like to get a few comment on it, just to see what the reaction is. It's called "To kill..." I hope you like it:

Tick. Tock.

A careless hand brushed the damp wallpaper, feeling its texture as he concentrated.

Tick. Tock.

His eyes twitched involuntarily, his mind wandering from the task at hand.

Tick. Tock.

A pale hand withdrew into a shallow pocket and muffled the ticks of the pocket watch. His eyes refocused on the man ten feet away.

He was nervous. His feverish, sweaty face bore witness to that emotion, betraying him. Swallowing carefully, he wiped the sweat off his pale face. He wished he hadn’t brought his watch – it only made the task at hand even more terrifying. 10 minutes left... But he needed to do this. A substantial sum of money awaited him: it was to feed him for another month or two. He thought back to his dingy top-storey apartment, with only enough room for a little bed and crooked table and chair: half a bottle of cheap vodka, a plate with leftovers of the night before’s dinner(fatty steak and mushrooms), a bowl of cold cabbage soup...That was all he had left: not even enough money for a cup of coffee in the nearby cafe!

He was a small man with a wiry body made solely of skin and bone. His russet-coloured hair was thin and lay dully atop his angular face. Round brown eyes sat over hollow cheekbones, which in turn led to thin lips and a pointed chin. A thin brown moustache hung underneath the long, sharp nose. His left hand clutched a small kitchen knife, rusted at the hilt. As he watched the man he was a bout to kill, he recalled the conversation that took place with his employer two days ago....

It had been at the office of Mr. Peter Toms, a wealthy statesman who had earned his thousands by protecting corrupt politicians.

“So, you are Mister Vladomir Gregorski, are you not??” Mr. Toms had asked.

He had shuffled nervously, keeping his gaze on the wad of cash on the table before him. “I am,” he had replied quietly.

“And are you willing to help me, Mr. Gregorski?”

“Certainly”.

“May I ask what brought you to Sankt-Peterburg?? I do think that you’re Slavic in origin...?”

He had coughed. “Yes sir. I was born in Serbia, but when my parents died I was brought to Kiev to live in an orphanage. I escaped and made my way here. That was seven years ago.”

“Interesting. Back to business then. How do you perform the task??”

“Knife to the heart, sir. Slitting their throat’s too bloody.”

“How very astute. Do you need a knife, or have you your own??”

“I usually take it from a workshop in the city centre, and drop it down a drain when I’m finished.”

“Resourceful, resourceful...Very well. Does four thousand sound fair to you? Providing, naturally, that it is completed??”

“Yes sir. Is there a deadline??”

Mr. Toms had chuckled to himself. “ Thursday. The future victim is at home every night at seven. Carpenter’s Lane, beside the butchers. Make it clean. I’ll give you the money the next day - meet me in the square.”

“Right sir. Thanks very much, sir.”

Vlad brought his thoughts together as he saw the victim’s head nod in his sleep on the moth-eaten armchair. He glided swiftly into the living-room. A single candle provided light in the half-darkness. He looked at the partially-bald head in front of him: single white hairs waved slightly in a hidden draught, liver spots glowed in the candlelight. He steeled himself, raised his left hand, plunged the knife in the direction of the man’s chest....

It was done. Vlad carefully extracted the knife from the dead man’s heart, hoping to not drop any blood from it. He covered it in a few pieces of newspaper form his pocket. He was about to exit the scene of the crime when he heard a whimpering noise from the other side of the room.

His head snapped up. On another arm chair sat a little girl, perhaps four or five years of age. Her dirty blonde hair was tangled and her face smudged with dirt and mucus. Her wide blue eyes gazed at Vlad standing over her murdered grandfather and sole guardian. Her bottom lip quivered and she gave another whimper.

Vlad was shocked. A child?? He had expected the victim to be alone in his house and hadn’t been told of a child. What would he do?? He didn’t want to kill such an innocent creature.....yet she was a witness to the crime. She was sure to tell the police, even though she was young, and then he’d be shafted off to Siberia for the rest of his life. Something he was not willing to allow. He took a shaking step towards the girl, and slowly extracted the knife from the newspaper....

His pounding footsteps echoed throughout the dreary building as he ran for his life onto the street below. It was twilight, and crowds were thinning as people went home to get supper. Ordinary people who had never killed anyone, who remained oblivious to such horror in their home city.... He continued to run to the river, all the while horrified at what he had done. A little child, only a little child, killed because of his own stupidity and greed for money.....Images of those he had killed before flashed into his mind: an elderly couple who had had a paranoid son, a young woman of a wealthy family whose fiancee was tired of her, a sixteen year-old youth who had made too many enemies.....And suddenly his head filled with the revolting image of a dead baby, blood around its mouth and wide, staring eyes......What had he done, what had he done??? What was it that his deceased father had told him years ago?? “To kill is to die inside....remember that, son...” He had to end it somehow.....

An elderly lady was taking a walk beside the river, on the way home with groceries for supper. She took a deep breath of the salty air. Wasn’t the sea magical?? Washed away the worries of life, made peace within her.......A strange sobbing sound reached her ears and she opened her eyes.

A young man stood crying at the river. He could not be more than fifteen years of age : his russet-coloured hair contrasted sharply against his dead white face. His brown eyes were rolling in their sockets, he was moaning horribly. “No, no...” escaped form his lips. As the lady looked on in shock, a gasping cough was emitted from his lungs as he reeled slowly forward and fell into the river face-down, in slow motion.....

[Bong-Man]

Hit men take the cash first.....bounty hunters take it after.

[fenix]

Is there nothing u can't do

Great read Deidre....certainly left me wanting more and the ending leaves you to draw your own conclusions of which there could be several. Nice one

Edited December 12, 2007 by fenix

[redrum]

This sounds like a story that could be illustrated by T. Ott

[wendigo]

Hit men take the cash first.....bounty hunters take it after.

It's set in the late 1800s or early 1900s, so I';m sure it was different then.

Thanks Fenix and Redrum. Whoever T. Ott may be.

[Ilovejimmypage92]

Wow, awesome. Very chilling!

[wendigo]

Wow, awesome. Very chilling!

Thanks!

[Levee]

I like it wendigo, I wish I could write that well.

[Ishita]

I quite love it Deidre, as Ali said, it's very chilling. You should think about writing more frequently.

[redrum]

Whoever T. Ott may be.

He does scratchboard comic style art. Some of it is pretty bizarre but your story would be perfect for his style.

Aghh! I just remembered, he doesn't use many words in his illustrations.

Edited December 17, 2007 by redrum

[wendigo]

He does scratchboard comic style art. Some of it is pretty bizarre but your story would be perfect for his style.

Aghh! I just remembered, he doesn't use many words in his illustrations.

Wow, that looks awesome!

Thanks Levee and Ishita! I'll try to write more short stories during the holidays while I try to learn Russian