A List of Names

I walked through the valley of the shadow of death. Century-old buildings lined the walls, now decrepit and black with soot. The rain was a drizzle. The concrete floor shined brightly in the lamplight. In front of me, a boy. No older than 6. All alone in the darkness with a schoolbag on his shoulders. I started to shake a little. I clenched the hammer in my hand a little harder. My thirst seemed to get stronger and stronger by the second. My urge to bring the hammer upon the child. That’s why I’m here. The child was poor, probably working class. The only people who would’ve missed him would be his parents. And they sure didn’t. It was 2:AM on the dot. Nobody was around. Just me, and this kid. I slowly raised the hammer high above the child’s head. I brought it down quickly. He fell to the floor, blood oozing from the dent in his head. He squeaked out one shrill cry of pain. His little hands grasped at the wound, feeling his exposed brain. I started to panic, bringing the hammer down again and again to no avail. He remained alive. In a desperate attempt to kill the child, I picked his head up. Looking away, I threw his head against the concrete floor. Finally, the awful whining noise stopped. I stood up and looked at my shirt. I got blood on it. Angrily, I ran out of the alley. A single light turned on behind me. I picked up my pace and jumped into my automobile. I cranked the hand, and the thing started to inch away from the crime scene. I sped it up and zipped away. I could hear a woman’s scream far away, back at the crime scene. I sped up the automobile, and soon enough I made it to my home. I parked the automobile in my driveway. I picked the hammer up and left the car. I angrily swung the door to my house open and collapsed on the couch. I was simmering with rage. My killings were getting sloppy. The kid was my fourth victim. It started with a few slip-ups. A close call with a neighbor when my second victim, maybe two months ago. I stuffed his body in a trash bag before she saw it. My neighbor was old. My father almost caught me when I silently snapped a boy’s neck. Sometimes I would think about what would happen if I would be caught. What would I tell the cops? They’d surely ask for a motive. But I didn’t know that I had one. I didn’t have a reason for only killing children of the night. They were just the easiest target. Little children, wandering around alone at night… Nobody missed them. I’ve always had an unbearable thirst for blood. It was like an alcohol addiction. You know what you’re doing is wrong. But you can’t stop yourself. That’s how I justified my killings at the time. But thinking back on it, that’s not entirely true. It was not out of a temptation to kill. I was not under the influence of my urges. I don’t think I cared. I just killed, it because I felt like it. Because I wanted to see the blood ooze from my victim’s head. Watch as they twitched on the floor, writhing in pain. I never viewed my victims as humans. More like a trophy. Another number on a kill count. Nothing more than my “Third Victim.” I don’t think I viewed anyone as human. I had a very simple view of life: I am a god amongst mortals. I am the only one with a brain. That helped me justify my killings even more. It was like killing a roach. When you kill a roach, you don’t think about its family or feelings. You think about it as a mindless pest. That is how I viewed my victims and to a certain extent, everyone around me.

I still remember my first killing, all the way back in 1890, as a 20-year-old. I was walking down the streets at night, coming back from a long day of slaughtering cows and salting their remains. I remember the time exactly. 2:54 AM. A little boy, sitting alone. Only his golden blonde hair was lit by the moonlight. A long shadow stretched behind him, like a monster waiting to pounce. I put my special golden gloves on. With them, I slowly dug my hand into my bag and pulled out a cleaver. I nimbly dashed towards him and brought the cleaver upon his skull. He buckled under the pressure and fell to the ground. He rolled around and faced me. His face was round- an expression of confusion and pain. I again brought the cleaver down onto his head. This time, right on his forehead. Dark, black blood oozed out of his gash, mixing with his deathly pale skin. My eyes widened in excitement. The thrill of the kill. Faster this time, I brought the cleaver down repeatedly. Harder and harder each time. The boy’s arm twitched upon each blow. Eventually, his face resembled that of a red crater. I quickly dashed away, swallowed up by the dark shadows of the dreary night. Afterward, I went to bed. I remember flopping onto the frame, eyes wide and heart racing. My mouth, a distorted and comically wide grin. My two other kills had similar aftermath. My fourth kill was different. I remained to sulk on the couch. Eventually, my eyelids grew heavy. I fell asleep, arms dangling off the couch. My 5^th victim would soon appear.

                                                              *****

 

I walked alone, my hand brushing against the bushes lining the sidewalk. Last night was full of terrible rain. The navy-blue sky of tonight was speckled with small stars. I stopped walking and looked up at them. Below them, dark grey clouds. I realized something. I hadn’t seen a cloudy night since I was still in my ma’s house. My pa went off to war, so it was just me an’ ma. Then ma got a call. Ma was distraught after that call. She left me in an alley, and I never saw her again. I continued to stare at the stars until I heard soft footsteps behind me. I whipped my head around. A tall, slim grey mouse. His face was stiff- it shinned in the moonlight. The only thing not shining were his eyes- they were hollow, black, holes. The mouse’s mouth was contorted into a wicked smile. His body was a stark contrast to his face. He was wearing a brown jacket, with a black undershirt. His hands were a shiny golden, not matching his face. They looked to be gloved.

 He had two sets of ears- one shiny and fake- the other pair distantly human. They had two grey straps looped around them. He has a small bag around his shoulder. Sticking out was a wooden handle. I stepped backward, rather startled by the mouse’s appearance. Finally, the mouse spoke. His mouth didn’t move. Instead, his whole face rumbled.

            “Would you like to meet my friends?” He said, in a slightly British accent.

I stepped towards him. He sounded similar to a mouse from a show I’d scene. A sense of familiarity washed over me, and I smiled. This mouse must be a friend.

            “Okay,” I said. I eagerly ran towards him. He took my hand and lead me to his car.

            “How old are you?” he asked.

I had to count on my fingers.

“Three.”

I stood in front of his automobile. I could see barely see the mouse in the window. He had something blunt raised high above my head. He brought it down, with all the power of a steam locomotive. It knocked me out but didn’t kill me. Knowing what I know now, I wish it killed me. 

 

When I woke up, I was on a couch. A blanket rested atop me. I could hardly muster the energy to move, let alone leave. I could see the man who knocked me out. Only now, the mask was off. “You’re no mouse,” I whispered.

The mask was on the floor, close to me. He walked over to me and picked me up. My blanket dropped to the floor. He threw me to the floor. My head bashed against the table. A barrage of pain swept over me. I screamed. Small tears started to form in my eyes. I looked up, fading in and out of consciousness. He had a horrid smile on his face. He then reached for a small knife. I shrunk against the table leg.

“I want my mom,” I said.

It was barely audible. But I knew that she was elsewhere. I was all alone. Destined to die in this dingy room. But right before that, I heard knocking on the door. My eyes widened. I hoped that whoever would be at the door would be a friend, not an enemy.  The man swiftly picked me up, dropped me on the couch, and swept the blanket over me. I could not muster up the energy to move. The man opened the door, revealing a rather miffed-looking elder lady. “What was that scream I heard?” she croaked. The man looked at me, probably thinking of some excuse. “My son is sick I had to give him some medicine. You know children. He was thrashing and screaming like a banshee,” he said. The woman looked at me. My eyes widened. I pushed my eyebrows down, trying to signal that something was wrong. The woman looked back at my killer. “Ha-ha. My Gregory does that all the time!” The old woman threw her head back, guffawing. The man joined in. I watched helplessly as the woman who could’ve saved me and my killer laughed about me. The old woman waved her hand and closed the door. The man turned around and smiled. I shrunk against the couch. The man lunged at me, jamming the knife into my stomach. He would lift it, then thrust his hand down, each wound causing more pain. Everything finally ended once he stuck my head with the dull side of the blade. I was knocked out, but not for long. A shallow grave awaited me.

                                                                ****

 

I finally threw the lifeless body into a shallow grave, deep into the no-man’s land next to my apartment. I shoveled dirt over the body. The kid slowly squirmed, clinging on to whatever life he still had. I continued to drop piles of dirt on him until nothing was visible. I threw the shovel on the ground and sat back. One more number on a long list.