CHAPTER EIGHT
He sat in his darkened bedroom, looking at the computer screen. He’d set the glow to a low setting and even then, he had to tilt the laptop lid slightly downward so it did not shine directly on his face. He was looking at a Facebook profile for a man he’d never met. It was the profile of a man that was included on a list sitting to his right, the names obscured by the poor light in the room.
It had been quite easy to get the list—maybe too easy. It was just another indicator that he was doing the right thing. It almost seemed as if everything had been set up perfectly, the universe itself making sure he had everything he needed.
He’d only met with two people on the list, but things were moving along rather well so far.
It was also much easier than he’d expected.
He had assumed that taking the life of someone would be difficult—a gut-wrenching and heartbreaking endeavor that would haunt him. But he’d slept better than he had in ages ever since taking the first life, a middle-aged man with prostate cancer. In the man’s final glimpse of the world of the living, there had been a flicker in his eyes—something that had looked very much like gratitude.
He was doing these people a favor. And what he’d seen in that man’s eyes had proved that.
He’d not seen it in the woman’s eyes. She had been far too confused in trying to determine if she had known him or not. But he had sensed a wave of relief coming over her when she’d fallen to the pavement. And in her final moments, he had no doubt that she’d been grateful to him. He’d spared her those last, awful months.
Feeling that he’d learend all about his next potential target that social media was going to give him, he closed the lid of the laptop and stepped out of his bedroom. His apartment beyond was small, tidy, and dark. His crimson-colored curtains were drawn tight, preventing any sunlight from getting in. Sunlight had been making him feel ill for a while now. Headaches, nausea, and these diamond-like sparkles that danced in front of his field of vision, making him feel dizzy.
He went into the living room and lay down on the couch. He had a television but he rarely watched it anymore. TV was a distraction, as was music and the job he’d quit three weeks ago. He had a nice little chunk of cash saved up and he figured when his new work was done, he could find another menial job and carry out the rest of his own miserable life.
Life. It was nothing but a ticking clock, a term and a set number of days that started counting down once an infant took its first breath. And from the moment that first breath was inhaled, the timer started and the process of death began.
It was his job to get those in pain to the escape of death quickly. Why allow the world and its troubles to taint their last days? He knew that most people frowned upon the idea of suicide, even when handed a terminal diagnosis. He was the answer for that; he was the quick and mostly easy way out of that tormenting decision and the difficulty that came with the little bit of life those poor, unfortunate people had to live.
He tried not to think too highly of himself. He was, after all, just a tool. He also knew a great deal about pain and suffering—as well as the desire to have life snatched away when in one’s worst moments.
Almost absently, he reached over to the coffee table and looked at the list of people he’d been collecting. Yes, they were people with names, but he was more concerned with the names of the forces that were taking their lives. Prostate cancer, breast cancer, brain tumors, lung cancer, heart disease, AIDS. He focused on those factors because at the core of it all, those were the cause for death—not the people themselves. And focusing on those killers made it easier for him to take their lives.
Then, in the gloom on his apartment, he looked at their schedule of appointments, another handy feature of the list he’d managed to acquire. This was the most convenient thing of all, as it gave him a timeline as to when he would be free to attack. There was some planning and strategy to it if he did not want to get caught, but that had always been a strength of his.
If he did this right, he could be a savior of the terminally ill until he drew his last breath.
With a thin smile in the dark room, he thought: Ah, and wouldn’t that be poetic?
He set the list and appointment schedule back on the table, already starting to focus on the next person he’d save and when he’d be doing it. And as luck would have it, it was very soon indeed.