The MIND of a KILLER
The SOUL of a SINNER
& The WORLD we ALL live in
CHAPTER 1-meet William Bradshaw
The handle squeaks as I turn on the cold water. I move the handle from the left all the way to the right. It pours out. I cuff my hands gently, and place them under the stream of water. The cool touch of the water, and then the rush of energy as it splashes my face, causes my once half-dead demeanor to awaken and gain a new energy. I open my eyes, my sight is blurry. I wipe the water away and just stand, staring into the sink. The blood from my face mixes with the water. The pinkish fluid spirals down the drain.
I grab ahold of the back of the sink, leaning my head underneath the faucet to rinse out my hair. I run water over my head for a few minutes just to rinse off my whole head and then I lean back out. As water drips from my hair into the sink. I just stand, hovering over the sink staring down into the drain, and watching the water flow. I just stand there and watch, because in this instance, this one single moment, the world has stopped moving. The only thing that is happening all around is this simple stream of water, flowing down the drain. The hands on my watch even stop, just for a moment at least, to let the water flow. I close my eyes, and as if the switch to reality was located behind my eye lids, I open them and the world re-starts.
Through a few strands of wet hair I glance toward my watch. "12:49, so it took me an hour and twenty this time." Without turning my head I grab the white towel I had pre-set on the counter next to the sink. I softly run it through my hair. "You know what? People dry their hair way too hard, ya know? By the time they reach their thirties, all their hair is either gone or receded. I definitely don't want to lose my hair. It is quite precious to me." I yell into the living room only to get no response. A quick burst of pain jolts into my stomach. That would be my appetite. This time my hunger kicked in fast. I take a step toward the nearby cupboard. I take one more step and my legs stop working. I collapse. I pushed myself a bit too hard this time I guess. I'm thinking a three day fast before a hard day of work is a bit much to handle. I might have to go back to just a two-day fast.
"Ok" I rise to my feet. "Slow and steady wins the race. You know how the saying goes Will. We can make it through this." Baby step at a time I inch my way slowly to the cupboard. Each movement I make causes my stomach to tense up. You can take it from a guy who has been stabbed twice in the stomach; this is the worst pain I have ever been through in my entire life. A few steps away I can taste whatever may lie behind this tall oak door! I reach out my arm to grab the door, but the pain is so intense it causes me to fall to my knees. "Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale." I lean forward onto my hands and start up a very awkward crawl. I get to just below the handle of the cupboard and reach up. I have trouble turning the knob on the door. I'm so exhausted of energy that my hand-eye-coordination is shutting down.
I manage to swing the door open and reach out; grabbing the first thing I touch on the bottom shelf. I plant myself next to the door up against the wall. The food I just so happened to pull out of the pantry was an unclosed, half-eaten, stale loaf of bread. Not my food of choice, but it will have to do seeing as how everything is starting to fade out. Piece after piece I shovel this pitiful excuse of nutrition down my throat. So desperate for energy I don't even chew, now my only problem is how dry my mouth is, and the fact I'm more than likely going to pass out and choke to death. The heel at the bottom of the loaf get pushed down my throat barely and now all I need is a little bit of liquid nourishment. Getting myself back into my awkward crawling stance I move one arm forward in the direction of the refrigerator. Before my hand even has a chance to touch the cold tile everything goes black.
My eye lids slowly push themselves open. The pain in my face has now masked the pain from my stomach. The hunger is gone but the after effect of nearly dying from exhaustion and lack of nutrients is still here to stay. My body is still weak, and if it wasn't for the feeling of certain dehydration and the fact I just swallowed a whole loaf of bread, then I probably wouldn't move. "How long have I been on the floor?" I pull my watch close to my face. Wow, not only did I just pass out on a solid tile floor, but I've been dead asleep for the past 10 hours. I'm definitely going back to a two day fast.
With a deep breath I move my arms out perpendicular to my sides in a stance to maybe pick myself up. I go to push up, only to fail and not even lift an inch. In fact I am pretty sure I used full strength and didn't move at all. I give up, maybe lying here is the best option I have. In fact, it's the only option I have. Well, at least I have good quality entertainment to keep me busy. "Yep, nothing beats watching a FUCKING SPECK OF DIRT sit on a tile floor!" An hour rolls by.
"My second attempt." I lift up enough to get back to my knees. Crawling time, slowly I make my way to the fridge. I swear, if I added in a few mythical creatures, a tiny bit of detail, a few plot twists, and a dramatic love scene, then I could turn this epic ordeal of getting nourishment into a fantasy best-seller. This is down-right ridiculous. I crawl long enough to make it across the cool floor to the tall steel refrigerator. A quick blast of cold air as I swing open the door hits me in the face and sends a chill down my spine. A take a quick glance in and find that there is only one liquid item in there. Surely enough, it just so happened to be the one thing I hate to drink. "ICED TEA!" My stomach turns.
Three hours and a gallon of iced tea later and I am strong enough to walk. I make my way into the living room. I enter into the room and notice my roommate on the couch. "Hey, didn't you hear me yell, or maybe notice I was missing for around 10 hours? Even If you did notice, don't you think it would be a little weird for me to be passed out on the kitchen floor? What the fuck ever though, don't even talk to me, I'm going to sleep." I storm through the living room, down the hall, and into the bedroom. Without stripping down, emptying my pockets, or even the simple act of getting under my covers, I plop myself down face-first into the pillows. As I hit the bed, the water filling it ripples out, but soon after return back to me swaying me back and forth on top of the water. Before the water even has a chance to stop swaying I close my eyes and pass back out.
Just like any other day i wake up, and start breakfast. "Hey, you slept on the couch again last night. I'm making pancakes. I know you love pancakes. I even put the little blueberries you like in the batter." The more i talk the less answers I get. "You don't ever talk to me anymore. What did i ever do to piss you off? We spend a great day together here and just relax and have fun and now you won't even speak to me. Its fine, i don't understand but i guess you have your reasons." I flip the pancake high up into the air. It floats for a second. It stays up into the air long enough that you would think gravity was shut off. The flat cake smacks down back into the pitch black skillet. "Syrup?" OK don't reply. You can come and make your own damn pancakes.
After a long breakfast it's time to clean. I'm leaving soon so i need to get the house nice and tidy. "Music time!" I pop in my ear buds and flip through my list of songs. Can't find anything good so i think i might just shuffle through. The first song plays. Don't worry, about a thing. Every little thing is gonna be alright." Bob Marley is the best. Where did we put that scrubber? I put a mixture of bleach and water down on the tile kitchen floor, mainly bleach. This is the worst part of my month. Only problem is that there is four different tile floors in this fucking house and i have to scrub the living daylights out of all of them. I kneel down, scrub brush in hand. My jeans soak up some of the bleach water and my legs flinch slightly at the cool touch of the water. I start to scrub and zone out.
"Love is, is what I got. I said remember that. I said, love is, is what I got. No I don't cry when my dog runs away. I don't get angry at the bills I have to pay. I don't get angry when my mom smokes pot, hits the bottle or goes back to the rock. Fuck it, Fight it, it's all the same…"
I guess my music player is in a reggae kind of mood today. Sublime may not be quite as reggae as Bob however they are soul filled and definitely chill. I cried when my dog ran away. My mom however never was a drinker, or a pot smoker. Instead she just would lie in corners doped out on meth, and never acknowledging that she had a son to feed, or to CARE about, or to even FUCKING TALK TO. The scrub brush flies across the room and crashes into the wall. I need to control that a little better.
"Daddy was a bank robber, but he never hurt nobody. He just loved to this that way, and he loved to steal your money. Some is rich, and some is poor. That's the way the world is.I don't believe in lying back, and saying how bad your life is…"
My father, He wasn't something special like a bank robber, or he wasn't a fireman, or cop, or even something heroic like a bounty hunter, not at all. He was just an ordinary desk worker who never complained or bitched. He loved his life and he loved me. My father was a brilliant man. I loved him all day every day and my favorite moment of everyday was the minute he came home and would play video games with me. In fact he was the perfect parent.
I remember the last time I saw my dad. Well I remember the last time I saw him alive and the last time I saw him. The last time I saw him alive was a special day.
"Daddy, Daddy! What are we doing today. You never come and pick me up from school. Are we going to the zoo? Or the park? Or grandma's house! I love grandma's house. She always gives me candy. You know the ones that are mushy and taste like bubblegum?" I say
"We are going to the park buddy!" Dad replies. I throw my arms into the air and jump at least a million times. The park is my favorite place in the whole entire world. "Which park are we going to? Can we go to the one with the he metal thingy? Or the one with lots and lots of swings? Don't you love swinging dad? I remember you told me you loved to swing when you were my size."
"We can go to both William. We do have the whole day to play." Dad grabs my arm hard and keeps me still. "So where do you want to go?"
"Everywhere!" In fact we really do go everywhere. We go to the metal thingy, the swings, the pool, and even the zoo. I love the polar bears.
Later on in the last night I had seen my parents everything goes to hell. I go to my friend Brady's house and my dad tells me to spend the night. However Brady's parents have to work earl so I can't stay. Brady's mom calls my dad and tries to get ahold of him but nothing works. So she does what every good parent does and keeps me for another hour or so. They lose their patience though and decide to take me and see if they are home and just busy.
I arrive at the house to a quiet block. No cars are driving by. Nobody is awake. All the lights in the neighborhood are out except for the flickering streetlight that spits out beams of light in uneven waves, and casts shadows only when it chooses. Brady's mom pulls into my driveway and does what she has done for all the years I've known Brady. I walked down my narrow drive and across my yard to the front door. I hear her yell out to me the same phrase I have heard on a weekly basis. "Remember to come out and tell me if they are home tonight."
I open my front door and walk into my living room. Since I was eight the picture of my living room and kitchen has been burned into my mind. The light coming from the dining room illuminates a small portion of my dining room table. The rest of my living room and dining room is filled with the dancing of shadows in the darkness. This scene is an eerie one. It is an opera of nothing but darkness. Pitch black. Your mind does the casting. Your imagination writes the play, and your eyes put it into motion.
However the living room isn't the important part of this long lasting memory. What lies for me in the kitchen is what really matters. I can see it now. My eight year old form walks slowly to the kitchen he yells for the father that loves him. Hopefully he will not find the mother who loathes him, or least of all anyone.
As the boy gets closer and closer to the doorway he is slowly transformed into me. I become whole as I step into the light. My eyes need to adjust to the light. As the picture becomes clear I notice the usual pieces of furnishing. My light-grey refrigerator, matching light-grey dishwasher and stove, black and purple plates light the drainer, and the room is filled with the sound of the sink running. Just as usual looking at the yellow wallpaper hurts my eyes. However I see a red speck. I look slowly to my right still trying to fully adjust and the number of specks multiplies. Soon it becomes an array, and by the time my eyes make it to the table in the corner I see him. My dad is slump over, halfway falling out of his chair. Blood drips from his head onto the floor. A handgun of some nature lies in the pool of red liquid at my father's feet. I never knew my father owned a handgun. Within and moment of noticing the handgun, I see a leg. That leg would be my mother's leg to be specific. I turn and run out of the house and collapse in front of Brady's mom's car. She runs to me and tries to ask what is wrong, but all I can do is cry.
The police show up. They put me in a car with a woman dressed in a nice outfit. She tells me constantly of how things will be ok. I get out of the car and run to the house. One step into my front room and everything has changed. Groups of people with badges hanging from their necks stand in packs and talk about the house and things they have found. I scan the room looking for my father however I know he isn't going to come to me this time. He isn't going to comfort me, or tell me how things are going to be better. IN fact he is never going to say anything again after today. There is only one person in my life at the time who could have said anything, but she didn't. In fact I look to my couch and see her sitting.
My mom was never quite the most pleasant woman, and she never left me with the feeling she was warming. However this time I see her and I will never forget this image of her. Her naturally curly hair sits matted up, knotted up, and draped down over her face. One side of her hair, along with the whole side of her body is drenched in blood. This wouldn't have been so noticeable had she not been wearing the long white shirt she wore every time she got doped out. I looked at her and screamed her name and she met my eyes.
On a normal day my mother had shining blue eyes. Her eyes were the only thing that made her a little bit fit for society. Everything about her would make you hate people, however if you met her eyes and she smiled then you couldn't resist loving that day. This moment however her eyes were not blue. Her pupils took up most of the color. Staring into her eyes today didn't give you a warm feeling. It gave you a feeling of death, and dread. It could have been the drugs or the crying but something made her eyes bloodshot. My mother saw me and didn't look at me with shame, or pain, or a look of comfort. She looked at me and didn't even notice who I was.
My fist hits the tile floor. It breaks, and shards of cold ceramic tile fly up scraping my face. "You ever lived in a foster home tommy?" I have hit my last straw! "Tommy, you have not talked, you have not made a noise, you have not moved, and you haven't even eaten in the past two days. What the fuck is wrong with you? I thought you were different. I thought this time I would have a roommate who appreciated the effort I put into such a great weekend. We had a special, spiritual moment, and now you won't even hint toward the fact that I am alive. Fuck you tommy" I storm into the living room grab him by his shoulders and shake him.
"LOOK AT ME!" I shake his body rapidly yelling and screaming at him all sorts of things that would make my father turn in his grave.
"Will! You need to calm down. I am just really tired." Tommy finally speaks.
"Really tired? You don't need to lie to me, I know you don't want to talk to me anymore." I shoot back at him.
"Don't want to talk to you? Why would I Not want to talk to you." Tommy sounds sincere.
"You don't want to talk because I hurt you." I feel bad for shaking him
"Will, I gave you my heart." Tommy's words strike me hard. I glance behind me at the large glass table in front of the couch. Smeared with blood this table is cluttered with the supplies from our long night. The first item I notice is my choice knife. This long, custom crafted, serrated bowie knife sits stained along the edge of the table. Next to it lays my handsaw, a scalpel, and next to those lies my most prized possession, a well-built, 1911 Colt 45. Shining glorious and proud it is nickel plated and silenced. It is beautiful down to the very last tee. Behind the weapons lies something of more importance though. There sits what one wouldn't expect. Tommy's heart.
"This whole time it hasn't moved. Every time you talk to me however, your heart beats." It's crazy to see a heart outside of a body. You can picture it for what it once was. It is the life source of all people. It acts as the central station.
"Are you leaving me Will?" The heart pulsates.
"Yes I am. I am leaving quite soon actually." I reply.
"How long are you going to be gone?" This question echoes in my head.
"Tommy, you know that I can't come back. You know that after I clean the one last room I have to leave. I don't want to leave. We have formed something special. Yes, we have formed a bond that cannot be broken. You will forever be remembered. You are my colleague, my roommate, and at the very least my best friend. However that doesn't change the fact that I have to leave. I may visit you sometime in the future and make sure you are still doing ok, however for a little while you won't see me." I try to explain.
"Where are you going?" I am still looking at the heart. It beats twice this time.
"I told you this already. I have to find Lindsay. She left us and I want to bring her back. I miss Lindsay, and I know that I still have you but it will not be the same until it's all three of us all over again."
"You can't leave now though. I mean look at you. You are a huge mess now." As this sentence rings through my head I stop to look at myself. I absolutely need a shower.
"Tommy, it's a good thing that the only room I have left to clean is the bathroom, because I need a shower bad." I leave the room, walk down the long, narrow hallway to the bathroom. On my way through the halls I stop to take in the pictures on the walls. I have not noticed these were even put up. All the pictures are of Tommy and a few older people. "Tommy, your parents look so happy, and your mother is quite beautiful." I yell back to him. This time however, I get no response.
The moment I step into the bathroom is the first moment I realize just how much of a mess I am. My arms and hands are drenched in blood and there are two streaks from running my hands down my face while walking to the bathroom. The detail from this is shocking in almost a comical manner. You can see the lines from each individual finger and then as the blood gets to my chin there is just a blot from where I first rested my palms.
With A smile on my face "Louis Armstrong's smile can't compare to the expression of joy Lindsay will have when I get to her." For now though, the only thing that matters is that I need to wash off and bleach the bathroom. I sure have made quite a mess, and I have made quite a few footprints in the hallway. Nobody will care; it was quite an ugly carpet to begin with anyway. I remember a few years back I told him not to buy it.
Scrubbing my body down in the shower is a task. I have done so much cleaning that I became somewhat of a sponge to all the dirt in the house. I literally soaked up year's worth of grime and dirt from the kitchen tiles, and have been coated in dust and god knows what from all of the bedrooms. I step out of what became cold water and look into the tall sectioned mirror on the far side of the bathroom. Although the mirror is fogged, parts of my body show through the diminishing mist. In fact I cannot miss myself. I am glowing damn near close to what resembles a hot pink color.
I open the pre-placed suitcase from the corner of the restroom and slip into a very comfortable pair of jeans and a button up white t-shirt. I slip a rope necklace decorated in colorful beads around my neck and fold my color over the top of it. Accessories of mine include a golden ring Lindsay gave to me on my 18th birthday, and a bracelet made entirely of laminated fortune cookie notes. I have added notes from various buffets across the country.
Only one last thing to do and that is to pack. I take the suitcase that I pulled my clothes from and head toward the living room. I place my knife, pistol and saw into the suitcase. Then I reach for the bible placed on the very far side of the glass table. I open the book to a random page in the middle and uncover the hidden hollow spot in the book. Here I place the small scalpel and place the bible into the suitcase.
"Tommy we have a problem. I seem to have got a lot of white towels and wash cloths drenched in blood. You wouldn't mind if I bleached them would you?" Back to the silent treatment I guess. I walk to the kitchen and stand over the sink. I stare this time not into the water spiraling down the drain but a sink filled to the brim with bleach. I gather up everything I had used to clean and throw it into the sink. Bleach splashes out onto my pants but it doesn't bother me. This is supposed to be how the kids wear their clothes nowadays anyways.
I step back into the living room and open the tall oak front door. I turn back bow my head and say with a small hint of what I hope Tommy doesn't perceive as sadness, "I bid thee adieu, and I will one day see you again. I promise."
END CHAPTER ONE!