The Beast

My path is clear; the beast must die. Too long has this beast-made man been living in my house. Too long have I endured the taste of blood in my mouth and the sensation of pain in my body. And I have come to loath the female form that I was born to; that allows for such actions to be performed upon me against my will. I have let it taste of my body and soul; gave control of my heart to the darkness and accepted my fate: but no more! My emotions control my actions now; I will cleanse this house and my life. It sleeps now in our....my bed; smelling of sweat, alcohol and the paid-for women he slept with in our house: My House. Confident in its control of me it leaves itself vulnerable to my attack - But I must be swift and steady. The knife has been lying on the side since I prepared dinner for the beast and his cronies. The feel of the knife in my hand fills me up with a calm that belies the raging flame that burns in my eyes. The moment is now; time to cast aside the shackles of my oppressor and rid this world of his vile and filthy soul. The door opens slowly on to our small bedroom; not uttering a single sound. The beast looks almost weak in his sleep, but I am not deceived by this disguise; I have seen his true face! The knife feels warm in my hand; it calls to me "Take thy righteous vengeance!" The moment is sweet Elysium; every fibre in my body is at the peek of ecstasy! ...And my hand stays; the voice in my head bids me to think this through. Beast though he is; does he deserve the fate that I shall deal his this night? Do I have the right to judge this being and condemn him to the cold embrace of death? My hand wavers on the edge of doubt and faith; I know not which way it will go Until the beast opened its eyes. The rage takes me and the knife comes down in a righteous arc towards those eyes; those red and blue, loathsome eyes. The knife stops but for a second but the moment drags out in sweet relief as the tip of the knife pierces the creatures forehead. The blade is sharp, durable and my strength born of divine vengeance sends the knife beyond the border of flesh and bone into the mind of the beast. He twitches and thrashes like a fish on the end of a spike, he's movements threaten to throw me to the ground. I place my hand upon its chest and push hard; placing all my weight upon that single point.

It senses the end is near, it commits all it's energies to the final push and for a moment I fear that the beast will win; only a moment. ....... I sit here now at the foot of the bed; our bedmy bed. My heart flies free as a bird and my soul is lifted by the fact that the beast is dead. This world will never understand what I did; they will label me monster and will leave me to rot in a jail - I did not escape one to choose another. The knife calls to me again; it offers me a way out of this scene, of this life and I accept its offer....

Luthers Work
As I made my way up the stairs I knew it was going to be a long night. They wouldn't call me on my anniversary without there being something worth mention; especially at this time of night. The air is thick up here, like my mum's homemade jam. And its quiet; although not unusual for a crime scene it seems more noticeable here. I've already passed several officers and not one of them spoke; just gave me that look, like a warning to brace myself. Probably just rookies straight out of the academy... I hadn't had chance to be briefed yet so have no idea what I've been called to see but from the area I'm going take a stab at a murder scene. But why call me out to a murder investigation, there are plenty of other inspectors on duty tonight and I haven't heard any chatter on the box about any other major incidents. There's something about this one, perhaps specific to me? But what? I don't recognise the neighbourhood, and my parents live out of state. Well, no use trying to guess at what you don't know. I'll know when I get there. Its colder up here too now; reminds me of that night.... Stop it! You can't keep following this line of thought. The monster that did that is long gone; you have to move beyond it no matter how hard that is. Still, I can't shake this feeling of 'dj vu' and its getting stronger by the minute. Must be close to the scene now, but where are the on-lookers? The nosy neighbours and gawkers? Nothing about this place feels right, even for a crime scene it's too quiet. And the smell, like copper and ... fear. I should be happy I'm not pushing my way past a large group of onlookers, staring intently at my crime scene but it unsettles me this time. The crime scene has to be pretty bad if they're keeping people this far away, but I don't see any crime scene tape or officers on patrol up here; what the hell is going on here! Calm yourself, there is no point working yourself up. The officers working this crime scene are obviously just asleep on the job. After all, with nobody up here to keep out, why waste tape? I reach the 9th floor after what seems like hours of climbing stairs, though no more than two minutes have passed since I left my car at the door. Why am I so acutely aware of everything? As though I'm seeing it all in slow motion. Finally; another person! Maybe he can fill me on what happened here.... Before I reach the officer, he turns and looks at me with a blank stare; like a man whose shutdown to deal with what he's just seen. He says not a word, just points at a door a few steps up on the right. The low level light of police standard issue torches emanates from the room; at least I won't be alone when I view the scene. I round the edge of the door frame and step into the apartment..... I 'awake' in my own apartment, sat at my desk with a brandy in one hand and a case file in the other. The scene flashes in my mind and I take a deep gulp, finishing the glass. I reach for the bottle, sat next to the leg of my chair. The Bastard! Its him, it can only be him! No one else could...do those things to people. A headache takes me and the file slips from my hand onto the floor, spilling it grime contents across the

cold wooden floor. Even in the poor illumination of my desk lamp, the images leap out at my eyes; crying for attention. The crime scene was the residence of the Palter family, your standard nuclear family; Husband and Wife, both in their late thirties and two children; A boy aged twelve and a girl, only four years old. The mother was expecting, second trimester. They even had a dog, an Alsatian. All declared D.O.A by paramedics. A drunken homeless guy could have told they were dead. The first 'corpse' I saw was the Husband; Lt Junior Grade Henry Palter, home on leave from the air core. A trained professional, he'd tried to put up a fight against his attacker. A hand print on the left forearm and forehead indicate he got fairly close to his aggressor. The coroner named the cause of death as extreme trauma to the spine and cranial plate. The man was driven so hard into the wall; the cleanup crew was pulling pieces of his bone out of the wall for hours after I left the scene. Looking at the photo, it looks as though the corpse and wall is one messy object, the line obscured by the large splatter of blood that escaped from his body in the split second he hit the wall. But the worst part about the whole horror was his face; stuck forever in a wide open, cold stare; mouth open in an eternal silent scream. We found the dog behind the sofa; the spine column was.... removed. The dog showed no signs of struggling; vet said it was like it knew it was in the presence of a bigger predator that it knew it couldn't win against. The dog had simply laid there as his master was killed, and then the intruder had attacked him; just laid there and taken it. Next were the two children, those poor little bastards. He played with them, made it into a game for his amusement; cat and mouse on a grander scale. We found multiple scratch marks across the walls and furniture where he lunged at the children. The girl had attempted to hide in the cupboard at the rear of the kitchen; the blood stains from the multiple scratches she had suffered tell us that. Two smooth holes at knee height in the door were the only signs of violence in the vicinity of her corpse. She had been looking through the grating, looking out for her attacker or her brother; and he had put her eyes out, killing her instantly due to shock. We can only summarise that he used his finger, as there are no tool marks and nothing was found at the scene that matches the entry hole size. We found the boy in the oven; coroner reckoned he'd been in there for two to three hours. The sick thing about it was that when an officer arrived on the scene the timer on the oven had gone off; the bastard knew how long it would take for someone to report the accident. The child had been folded over to fit in the oven, but had still been alive when his murder had turned on the oven. Like a sick joke, police found a cookbook on top of the work counter; opened to a section titled 'How to Cook the Perfect Turkey'. We found the mother in the master bedroom, lying on the bed; of all the corpses hers was the cleanest. In fact officers on the scene had attempted to wake her as they thought she had been sleeping. Coroners report states the cause of death as 'extreme loss of blood through two puncture wounds on the neck. Possibly an animal bite. What the report fails to mention is that less than a pint was found in the women, and yet not one drop of blood was found in the bedroom or on the bed sheets.

Rubbing my eyes, I reach for the gun I have in a hostel at my hip; just to make sure it's still there. If it is him, I'll soon need it. I know this guys M.O, been following him since I joined the force; in fact he's the reason I joined. My father was a police inspector too, had been following a particularly sadistic bastard he's entire career; claims the guy was sort of our families arch enemy. I didn't realise what he meant until I joined up. One night my father was reviewing a case file at home when the bastard decided to take him out. The sick f**k was after the file; wanted to see the appraisal of his work, didn't even give a damn about my father. My mum woke up the next day to find my dad sat in his chair, this chair as a matter of fact. He had a single, thin red line running across his neck. No sign of struggle, he had died instantly. I can still picture his face, etched in my memory like a promise; this will not be me. I have a son of my own; he's a fine strapping kid. Smart and strong willed; he'd make a great cop. But I don't want this life for him; the late nights and drinking problems are no life for my son. My wife; she's so strong but even she is afraid of me now, so strongly has the need to catch this sick son of a bitch gripped me that we don't even sleep in the same bed anymore. I don't blame her; I'm dead inside and will be until I get this guy in a maximum security cell. I hear a sound behind me; like someone taking a deep breath, and I know he's.........

I love this family; they never fail to bring me the best photographs. And they always seem to father a son before I tire of them; a good family all-round. I've been using this family now for several generations, and they have never disappointed me. The son is young, has much time to grow, to learn the hate that will make him seek me; to follow his father. I shall give him this time; I have others I can call on in the meantime......

Trapped
Another day in hell, otherwise known as Friday at the office. Office; that ones a joke seeing as its nothing more then a three wall cubicle. But for all intents and purposes its my prison; my own personal torture chamber; my tomb. The cold and uncaring clock slowly counts down the minutes that stretch like years through an endless cycle that culminates my life work, eat, work, sleep and repeat. Like some oversized gerbil in a cosmic maze, I feel like Im taking part in some kind of sadistic experiment for someones pleasure like theyre waiting for the moment when it all becomes too much and the walls start to fall on in on me; they wont have to wait long. Fear and doubt have heightened my sense; I see everything clearly now oh so very clearly. The gabble of women standing at the water cooler are peddling their wears; lies, deceit and trickery are what they offer poisoned goods for a poisoned world. Like a vulture waiting on his next meal the guy in the cubicle across the way keeps eyeing my back; he smells my fear and exhaustion now, it tastes so sweet on his tongue as he slowly considers what he should do with my space in the car park when Im gone. The room clatters with the sound of a hundred mindless zombies fulfilling the wishes of their corporate master; punch-in, switch-on and tune-out the world around you. Who cares about the state of your health when accounting is four months behind? Why take a holiday when you could earn those extra hundred dollars? Liberty and your freedom are but a small price to pay to ensure the twisted machine of the economy keeps running just keep your head down and youll do fine. The wolf in a suit is stalking the room now; taking in the smell of fear and profit in equal parts, savouring the taste of bitter sweat driven out through the clammy flesh of beings who will never take steps to stop him. Hes so secure in the knowledge that he owns these filthy people that he feels no shame in parading his twin vices of power and wealth like a working girl shows off her goods to attract other broken people. This place is making me sick; I can feel the darkness growing inside, swelling and shifting like some primordial ooze trying to escape its prison and burst forth into this blacken world to join in with the chaos and mayhem. I need to get out of here; I need to grab some tainted air. They all watch me now as I cross this field of pain and toil; unsure why one such as they would seek escape from its blissful life of ignorance and never-ending work. But Im not like them; Im not! I barely make it as my bowls void themselves of the taste of bile and poison that has been building up since I entered the office only a few scant hours ago. And with its passing comes the fear again; grasping at the edges of my vision and thoughts, yelling for bitter sweat release.

The pistol in my pocket feels heavy and warm; but offers words of encouragement and clarity it feels right just to hold it, to let the texture of the grip on my palm and the taste of the barrel touch my lips. All it would take is one small squeeze and I could escape this prison and be released to fly above the clouds. I grasp the gun and rest the barrel under my chin; I start to pull on the trigger of my release and offer one last small thanks to the savour that dumped the weapon in my trash can. Any moment now and Ill be free of this hell. But what of the others; what of the countless hundreds of mindless drones that have been swallowed by the corporate machine do I leave them to the fate from which I now escape? Am I worth the lives of some many others? No; my life is only worth something if I stand against this evil the wolf must die or they must journey with me to the light on after; to freedom. I brace myself for the righteous task I am about to perform; and I step out into the darkness alone with my thoughts.