The Chicago Reaper

A story from the point of view of a killer

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, in this filthy, filthy  

room. It could’ve been hours, maybe days, except for the fact that the  

blood still hadn’t dried up. Here I was, in frozen anger, in frozen guilt,  

thuds of pain slamming into my heart furiously. All I saw when I looked down,  

were my crinkly white-washed jeans and my bare toes in a puddle of black. Was  

it really black? I didn’t know. Just knew that it was warm and oozing,  

spreading all over the floor, almost surrounding me. Engulfing me.

    Horrified by the almost symbiotic object, I stepped back�"and stumbled over  

something soft and fleshy. I fell on my butt, pain shooting up my spine and  

calves. But I couldn’t really mind it. All I could remember was her. Her,  

who had been in this room a while ago. Her, who had been alive. Her, who had  

threatened me. She had to go. She had to go. Oh. She had to go! I glanced at  

the thing I had fallen over and realized it was her hand. With five brightly  

colored nails and a beaded bracelet with the letters G-I-N-A. Gina. Gina. My  

mind instantly produced an image of a beautiful girl with sun-kissed skin,  

flowing blonde voluminous hair, in an aqua tank top at sunset on the beach.  

Smiling. Her eyes glittering.

    But the memory was cut, as if by a whip, and the sounds of blood splattering  

and pain echoed in my ears. My eyes trailed up her arm to her slender  

shoulders, her bare neck, that now pale face, lacking life. There was  

something in those lifeless eyes that looked familiar. Other faces, other  

people that were dead. That I’d killed.

    I picked up the knife that was lying on the cold floor next to the girl’s  

body. Almost instinctively, I slashed the knife through the air, jabbing and  

stabbing at nothing. And it occurred to me what I had done. I had killed her.  

Killed all of them, in fact. Ma, Pa, Bobby, Louis. Those people down the  

street, a couple of hookers in Detroit. The couple from Michigan visiting  

Chicago. Now Gina. Those hollow eyes, lifeless, lightless, seemed to beam a  

burning hole into me. Countless reports of Chicago residents missing. Faces  

on the news, families torn apart. The screams of the hunted. The blood on my  

hands. The power that dominated me, the force that possessed me when I did  

these things. The hunger. The room stank of death, when a little while ago it  

was teeming with life, the both of us, Gina and I, laughing and goofing off.  

Then she stumbled upon the mask. And the gloves. And the arsenal of jagged  

knives. She put two and two together. I was the notorious Chicago Reaper, as  

the media had named me, moving from place to place, attacking randomly. The  

police were using dogs to sniff me out.

    I had to kill her. I had to. I had to! She was going to�"to ruin me. Those  

damned cops would tie me to an electric chair if they nabbed me.  I had to  

go. Oh Lord, I had to. I couldn’t contain myself anymore. Tears sprung to  

my eyes and streamed down my cheeks, and those eyes, oh, those lifeless eyes,  

gazing at me with such deadening intensity. I’d never forget them. Never,  

ever, ever, ever�"

“Brandon.” A breath caught in a gasp. I whirled around, and there in the  

doorway was Gina’s brother.

Short, side-swept hair, peach fuzz above his lip. Blue eyes. Shocked,  

electric blue.

“What’ve you done�"what have you done?” He began to back up. I rose to  

my feet.

“It’s not what it looks like, Jeremy.” His eyes flitted to the mask and  

gloves that were now exposed.

“You’re the Chicago Reaper…oh my God..” His hand covered his mouth.

“Oh my god.” He whispered.

“Jeremy, listen to me,” I begged.

Then I saw him take out his cell phone and start to dial 9-1-1.

I heard the call connect and then the operator’s voice: “9-1-1. What is  

your emergency?”

    Not two words squeaked out before I bounded across the room and threw the  

phone at the wall, it, splitting in half.

“Why, Jeremy?” I rasped.

I cornered him into a wall.

“Why?”

I lifted up the knife I had in my hands and pointed it at Jeremy.

“Brandon…no…you�"you need help, Brandon. Please. Don’t do this.  

Please! Listen to me.” His figure beseeched me.

He let out a strangled cry as I plunged the knife into his heart, and blood  

began to spurt out of his lips.

He fell slumped to the ground, twitching in agony, his face contorting into a  

series of emotions.

First fear, then anger, then hate, sadness, and lastly, acceptance. The life  

left Jeremy Sutton’s body and all was still. And I was back where I  

started.

This is what I am. This is who I am. I can’t change it, no matter what I  

do, because there’s no turning back.

Consequence after consequence after consequence after consequence.

Sirens in the distance.

The cops must have traced the call.

How the hell�"?

No. No time.

I grabbed my briefcase. Shoved everything in. Along with my identity. There  

wasn’t a Brandon anymore. Only a blank face, defined by a black hockey mask  

and a dark hood, dark gloves. I threw the briefcase into the trunk of the  

car. Got into the driver’s seat. And sighed.

Brandon was gone. Dead. He had been for a while. And every time he tried to  

come back, the murders would ensue.

I sat in silence before uncurling my fingers around the object I had ripped  

off of Gina’s neck earlier. A tiny, silver heart necklace with the letter G  

engraved on it.

Hearing the sirens draw closer, I shoved the necklace into my pocket and  

started the engine. Put on my aviators and pulled out of the driveway.

The cops arrived.

One of them rolled down their windows to speak to me as I stopped at a red  

light.

“Sir, have you noticed anything strange around this neighborhood?”

“No, officer.” I replied.

The light turned green.

And I stepped on the gas pedal, leaving death, love and betrayal all behind  

me.

And I will continue to run, run from the authorities, run from the law, run  

from life itself, but I know I can’t. I can only pursue this life, this  

life of a killer.

Author's Note

This won first place in prose in the Teen Writing Contest 2014 held by Brooklyn Public Library! Copyrighted.