Story 2: Want to Know Your Story—Part 2 (Violence Alert)

A writer wants to learn people's story. He accidentally meets a psychopath.

I was trying to cook up a little drama. I myself went to the police station and reported my wife as missing after 24 hours. They also investigated for a few days, made inquiries. Since I was the prime suspect as the husband, I knew I would be suspected.

But they couldn't find any trace of a body, so they couldn't claim any murder had happened. Meanwhile, their investigation revealed that my friend was also missing. I knew the police had somehow found out that he would often visit my house when I wasn't home. Seeing all this, the police had no issues linking the two and two together.

One day the police officer explained the matter well to me. They had looked into my friend's shady past. I too admitted that the boy was no good. Later, the officer told me that such extra-marital affairs are on the rise in this country. He commented that the nation's morals are deteriorating. After his remarks, I cried for a few moments.

Sir, but those were not crocodile tears of acting. I was genuinely feeling bad for my wife. I loved her dearly. The case remained filed as an extra-marital affair in police records.

But sir, my thirst for murder hasn't diminished. When I see people, my hands still tremble. If I find someone alone in a secluded place, well, need I say more?"

"What do you mean?" I was startled by his words.

"Before that, sir. I am wondering where do you learn to make such excellent coffee? I have never had such good coffee in my life"

"Thanks. I haven't married yet, as you can see, and I often stay alone at home. Finding a good cook is challenging, so I experiment with cooking. Consider this coffee as a product of one such experiment," I said, and with those words, I froze for a moment, realizing that the word " alone" was resonating with the ominous tolls of danger in my mind.

The man smiled as if he understood my attitude. He finished the rest of the cold coffee with a sip.

"Listen to the rest of the story, sir. After those two murders, I have committed three more murders. The victim of my third murder was a small child. He was playing with a ball on the street, alone. Must have been about 1.5 years old.

I saw no one around. I slowly went near the child. I grabbed his throat tightly, he struggled hard to breathe but I didn't let go. Rather I increased the pressure on his delicate windpipe. The bones of little children are soft, with a dull sound it broke. The poor child didn't even realize what had happened. Hee hee!

However, I didn't personally commit the fourth murder. But I'm certainly responsible for it. As soon as I got off the bus, I saw a commotion brewing in one spot. People had gathered in a circle. Pushing through the crowd, I understood that a pickpocket had been caught red-handed. The pickpocket was a teenage boy. He was being tried by the people.

Needless to say, the public was already agitated. They were just waiting for an opportunity. As soon as I shouted, "Death to the rascal's mother" and slapped the boy hard across his face, it was enough to break the dam of their restraint. People in this country don't really like pickpockets. A public beating began.

After beating him to death, no one felt a shred of remorse. Actually, there's no difference between them and me, I saw the thirst for murder in their eyes. They just haven't had the opportunity yet, otherwise, they would have become like me. Such is human nature.

For the next murder, I exhibited some professionalism. I had crafted a special knife for the kill. It was an extremely sharp knife. To test its sharpness, I checked it on the skin of my own palm. With just a slight scrape, the skin on my palm tore open and flesh came out.

I slit the old lady's throat with that special knife. She was probably a beggar. She was resting in a secluded bushy area. With three strikes to her neck, she died. Here, see this knife still has dry blood stains on it," saying so the man took out a sharp knife from his bag.

Indeed, there were dry blood stains on the knife. I was dumbfounded. This man is a dangerous lunatic. A complete psycho.

The man continued, "Sir, I actually have no particular motive or pattern for murder. I kill whoever I find. So, there's really no chance of me getting caught either. My sixth victim is going to be you. Please, don't resist at all. The less struggle from you, the less pain you'll suffer. It's beneficial for you."

As soon as he finished talking, he picked up the knife and stood up... I recoiled in fear. Looks like I'll have to die at the hands of a psycho after all!

The man is slowly advancing towards me. But he looks a little odd. Seems like he's having trouble breathing, his hands are trembling quite a bit. In fright, I have curled up on the sofa with my feet up.

The man took two steps and then collapsed right in the middle of the room. His wheezing has started, and he's clutching his throat. The strychnine seems to have started working.

I watch impassively as the man writhes on the floor, his body wracked by violent convulsions. Foam begins bubbling out from his mouth as he gasps desperately for air. His face contorts in sheer agony, eyes bulging out wildly. It is a gruesome yet fascinating sight.

I know I should feel some pity or remorse at this suffering. But I feel only a clinical detachment, observing the effects of the poison dispassionately. The strychnine is now fully in the bloodstream, attacking the central nervous system.

His limbs jerk and spasm as if controlled by invisible strings. Back arching painfully with each convulsion. The seizures increasing in frequency and intensity as death nears. A peculiar keening sound escapes his throat, primal and raw.

His hand clutches his chest while the other claws futilely at the floor. Vertebrae seem to pop and crack under the unnatural contortions. Even in the throes of dying, the body struggles on instinctively. But the battle is hopeless, the ending foreordained.

With a few final shudders, he goes still at last. Eyes glazed and unseeing. No longer a threat but merely a lifeless heap. I feel nothing but relief. The show is over, the curtain has fallen. It's Time to complete the story.

Any poison begins to react, depending on the physical condition of the poisoned person. Usually, it doesn't take this long for strychnine to react, within 15-30 minutes it starts its work. It took 45/50 minutes to kill this guy man.

I laughed and said, "While I may be your sixth victim, you are my eighth victim! The coffee didn't taste so great just like that for no reason. Seven other people have already been tested on before you." But the man is no longer alive to hear these words, white foam has started coming out of his mouth. Fools will be fools, when will these stupid people learn?

I had mentioned right at the start the importance of plot selection in my storytelling method. This is that method. To the seven sensational murders in the city over the past few months, one more has been added. The stories of these eight murders will be the plot of my story.

I'll have to create a masterpiece! Though there'll be some minor casualties. I've thought of a title for the book too - "I Want to Hear Your Story". The book will be somewhat like my autobiography. Looks like I'll have to complete the book and email it to the publisher today. Maybe the publisher will print the book and readers will graciously accept it.

Now, I sit down at my desk, energized with new inspiration flowing through me. The story is fully completed in my mind. I know exactly how I will craft it into a thrilling psychological thriller that will have readers at the edge of their seats.

My fingers fly across the keyboard as I write the ending scene. I describe the feeling of euphoria that comes after taking a life. The god-like power of deciding someone's fate with your own hands. I want readers to understand the mindset behind the compulsive thirst for murder.

The hunting and stalking of victims were portrayed as an addictive adrenaline rush. The chilling detachment felt while snuffing out an innocent life is conveyed through vivid sensory details. I articulate the strange hollowness that follows after, then the rising urge to kill again.

I type the final sentence, feeling drained yet immensely satisfied. This has been my magnum opus, a masterpiece showcasing the creative heights. My best novel is about to be born. But I won't be alive to enjoy this joy. I've tied the noose in the next room.

The noose I prepared earlier beckons invitingly. But I know my story will live on. That is a comforting thought as I step on the stool and slip my head through the loop, anticipating the rapturous embrace of oblivion. I kick away the stool without regret, finally free.

"So, reader! Are you ready to buy the book?"